


HEIR

by Vicaressse



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/M, Fix-It, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Aegon Targaryen, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Targaryen - Freeform, Pol!Jon, Political Jon Snow, There’s no character bashing here to serve a ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 97
Words: 512,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicaressse/pseuds/Vicaressse
Summary: There’s only one war that matters. The Great War. And it is here.Long, gruesome, devastating...The Wall, The Last Hearth, The Long Lake, Winterfell, White Harbor, Greywater Watch, The Gods Eye, Casterly Rock... Kings Landing.“The worst war in living memory.”Kings and Queens rise and fall, heads roll away in the dirt. Ice Blue Eyes shine while some play the Game of Thrones. The wheel turns and turns, “crushing those on the ground”.No one can halt the ancient sword of Targaryen. The sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men. “Realms of men.”The Prince that was Promised shall bring the Light.AUTHOR’s NOTE: Season 7&8 Fix-It. NOT serving any ship. Relationships appear. Main story: Ch 1 to 83 complete. Epilogue bonus story from Ch 84, in progress. Author is not native English - sorry for the grammar mistakes. Non-beta’d.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jon & Sansa

He stood still, watching her. He still couldn’t quite believe it, when he was certain that he’s lost everything he held dear, the Gods brought her to him. He knew she was alive, which was more than he could tell about any of his other siblings, and he used to assure himself that she was happy, back at the home they all left years ago. Now that she was here, even that illusion of small happiness shattered. He saw her bruises, he saw how her small fingers shook as she held the bowl of hot stew when she took her first supper at Castle Black. And now she stood at the courtyard staring lengthily at the four dangling figures.

Jon knew he’s got to order them to be cut down. They hung there for two days now, dangling in the wind. What ever they’ve done against him, they deserved a burial. Their bodies to be burned, none had the right to a burial other than that anymore. Yet they deserved it and Jon knew, and still, he couldn’t give the order. It was just another thing he couldn’t bring himself to do. So they were left there, to remind him, to drill into his head what they’ve done. What they thought of him, what they decided he deserved. His gaze settled on the boy. Olly was even younger than Bran and he hung him for mutiny. For shoving his knife into his Lord Commander’s heart. His fists wanted to hit something, to break something, let go of all the boiling anger he desperately held inside, and just feel it, allow it to rage until it would hopefully give way to relief. Jon liked the boy. It wasn’t the smartest decision to appoint him as his steward but Jon Snow didn’t make smart decisions. The Jon that got murdered, he thought bitterly. Jon Snow, honourable fool, made decision after decision following his honourable heart and got murdered for it. Honour was only worth a knife in the heart, after all.

“Don’t go near, my lady.” He heard the guard. Sansa stood in front of each, studying their faces as if she wanted to remember them. She grew up, Jon thought. This girl - woman grown - who came to Castle Black wasn’t the spoiled child who he knew from their younger days. Part of Jon wanted to know every detail behind the constant sadness in her eyes. A certain cold settled in her gaze and it seemed to him that no one ever will be able to melt the ice inside her again. He wanted to kill them all, for hurting her. Yet another part of him reasoned that it is better left unsaid, perhaps as an excuse to why he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Knowing himself, he would go an kill them all, no matter what it took. It was yet another thing he couldn’t bring himself to face just yet.

Earlier today they received a messenger from Winterfell and Sansa argued with him bitterly. She wants her home back, it’s only natural, he reasoned to himself. But Jon was tired of fighting, of living. Yet deep down he knew that it wasn’t his decision at all, the illusion of a peaceful second life, to go south and get warm as he sarcastically summed it, was nothing more, just an illusion. He will fight their wars forever, Ser Alliser said. The man now hung lifelessly in front of Sansa. He was right, Jon knew now.

“Lord Commander...” he heard behind him.

“I’m not the Lord Commander,” Jon spit out the words as if they were poison.

“Jon,” Edd begun again. “Help me, what to do with this?”

Jon turned towards his friend with a look of apology. Edd held a small wooden box in his hands, now holding it up in front of him to emphasise his words. “There are scrolls in it but you know I can’t...” Jon nodded, as he took the box and opened it.

“It was under the floorboard Jon, in Maester Aemon’s chamber. Perhaps something important, about them...”

Old scrolls, with broken seals - letters that the beloved maester probably cherished. A newer one, sealed still with that of a black lizard - The Reeds of Greywater Watch. He pushed it aside as a seal caught his eye. Direwolf. Broken. He took the letter and gave the box back to Edd, hastily rolling out the scroll in his hands to read.

Suddenly he grabbed the whole box from Edd and rushed into his chamber. There, he emptied its contents on the table. One by one, he broke the yet-intact seals, read them all, then the old ones, all of them. He didn’t notice Sansa standing in the door.

“What are those?” She asked finally breaking the silence. She startled as he turned towards her, his eyes brimming with tears. She rushed to the table, reading the first, then the second, the third.

“Seems to be old letters to a maester Aemon.”

“Aemon Targaryen.” Jon whispered, handing her the scroll with the direwolf seal.

She read it carefully.

_Maester,_

_I write to you to confirm that the child has been brought to Winterfell by me as you enquired. I must however decline any notion of his upbringing according to his status. The country may be at peace once more, yet I assure you that the child would never be safe if anyone knew. If he knew. He shall be brought up as one of mine, a bastard, and will learn nothing of the circumstances of his birth. Once he is of age, I shall send him to the Nights Watch where he’ll take the oath and be beyond the reach of kings. I trust you to be blessed with a long life, Maester, and perhaps one day you shall tell the boy yourself of your relation. I bid you not to, until he’s taken his vow. Until that time comes, let me assure you that he shall have no want, and will be cared for, educated alongside my own son. He is of my blood, Maester, and I shall do what all I can to keep him safe._

_Eddard Stark_

_Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

“Aemon Targaryen... was your maester?” Jon nodded.

“Father wrote about a child to be raised alongside his own son... Robb. That boy is you, the one brought to Winterfell as a bastard.” Jon nodded again, finally sinking into his chair in obvious dispair.

“Who am I?” His words were merely a whisper. Sansa rushed to his side, knelt in front of him. “You’re Jon. You’re my brother.”

“No, according to fa... Lord Eddard I am not. This is his handwriting.” Sansa studied the rough letters. ‘Father was never one for writing letters.’ - the scribble was instantly recognisable as that of Lord Eddard Stark.

“Read this...” Jon took an old dusty scroll from the pile and handed to her.

_Uncle_

_I trust the summer sun shines upon you at the wall as it does on Dorne, if a bit colder. It is way too strong here. I write to thank you for your guidance, and advise you that I did as you bid me. I followed my heart._

_She is of ice, and yet she awoke in me a fire that I never felt before. She is beauty itself, wild, untamed, stubborn and free, and I am finally free by her side. She is with child, and the happiness in her eyes melts my heart each time my own find her gaze upon me. She loves me, and I love her. We are one, in the eyes of the gods and that is what matters the most._

_Trouble is brewing, uncle. Her kin demand that I release her back to them and I cannot do that. For all I know, the child growing in her womb is the prince promised, of ice and fire. Cold winds are rising, blood will be spelt. I must haste my plans to put an end to the misery brought upon the realm by my father’s malady, and perhaps I shall be able to put my new family at ease and gain their forgiveness for the manner by which I went about taking my bride. I must be on my way come morning and leave her, and I know not when I will return or write again. I hold no illusions that war may be entirely avoided, yet I trust that in the end we shall all prevail. Your words are always with me, uncle, and your warning of what lies beyond the wall are ever more on my mind. I have done my part. Pray I have the strength to protect the treasure I have gained, the life we both hoped to bring to this world to one day defeat that darkness lurking under the layers of snow even now. Pray my plan succeeds._

_With love_

_R_

“Jon...” Sansa only noticed her hand covering her mouth as her eyes met the dark grey gaze, full of sadness and confusion. She quickly grabbed his hand, squeezing it in hers as if to provide some assurance amidst of this all.

“What do you make of it?” Jon asked in a thin voice.

“His bride who’s kin demanded her return to them... his initial is R, and he writes to Aemon Targaryen. This was written by Rhaegar Targaryen.” Tears began to slowly roll down Jon’s cheeks, watching Sansa as she scanned through the scroll once more. “We are one in the eyes of the gods... they were wed? That is impossible, Prince Rhaegar had a wife. Elia Martell. But he writes that she loves him and he loves her. If that is true, he didn’t kidnap aunt Lyanna, Jon.” Sansa looked up, her hands cradling Jon’s face and the scroll fell onto her lap then the floor. “You are the child, that is what I make of it. The child brought to Winterfell when father brought home Lyanna’s bones, who could not be told of his relation to a Targaryen.” Her voice was soft and soothing as she tried to calm him.

“Does it not anger you?” Jon asked, louder than he intended. His confusion began to give way to frustration and red hot anger burning ever so fiercer in his core.

“I... you are still Jon. This changes nothing about who you are. They are letters. If they are true, you know now who your parents were.”

“There is one from Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. He tells Maester Aemon of a child born in a tower of Dorne defended by three of the Kingsguard. He names the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne as one they slew there. That’s what father told us they did when he found... Lyanna. Reed writes the child was brought north and urges the maester to enquire the warden of the north.” He sighed.

“I thought I knew who my father was...” Jon continued as a matter of fact, “and he lied to me. All my life, he lied to me. As I sat alone in the far corner during feasts, as I stood aside every time Lady Catelyn looked at me with her hatred, because all I knew was that I was Lord Stark’s bastard. He lied to me!”

Sansa shook her head, for a moment surprised at how unaffected she felt by these revelations.

“He protected you. Jon, I was in Kings Landing when Joffrey hunted down and murdered all his father’s bastards. They even cut down a babe in his mother’s arms. King Robert would’ve done the same. Father protected you from that.”

“There are other letters, all from him. R. You say it’s Rhaegar Targaryen. He writes of prophecies, he writes of a northern threat that Maester Aemon seem to have warned him about. He writes about his father’s deeds and how he disgusts for them. He... he writes of a plan to set it right.”

Sansa shook her head once more.

“Whatever that plan was, I don’t think he got to carry it out. King Robert killed him in single combat at the Ruby Ford.”

“Aye. Then he took the throne for himself. They sacked Kings Landing.”

“Tywin Lannister sacked Kings Landing. Gregor Clegane murdered Elia Martell and Rhaegar’s children. If they knew, Jon... if they knew of you, they would’ve murdered you as well.”

“Maester Aemon knew this...” Jon whispered with a sigh, wiping his tears off his face. “He knew who I was, or thought he knew. He never told me.”

“What was he like?” Sansa tried to steer his attention away from what obviously pained and angered him.

“He was old, over a hundred namedays old. And blind, too. He was kind and wise. He told me to kill the boy and let the man be born, that was the last thing he told me. To do what I think was right. I wasn’t here when he died. I was at Hardhome trying to save the freefolk because that’s what I thought was right and I got murdered for it...” he shook his head in his disbelief.

“Gods, they knew. They knew what’s coming before we were even born and none did anything to stop it!” He was almost shouting as he finished, anger alight in his eyes once more. “All those lives they could’ve saved! Men of the nights watch, and freefolk, countless wasted lives...” his voice faded into a whisper as he held his fist to his mouth, as if preventing the chain of thought to take the form of words, to get out there and gain life between them.

“We must take these, Jon,” Sansa stood and hastily threw the scrolls back into the box. “Whatever the truth of them, we must keep them. If Rhaegar married Lyanna Stark and you’re their son... you’re the rightful king of the seven kingdoms!”

“Sansa...” he grabbed her wrist. “Don’t tell anyone, please, I can’t believe...”

“I agree, and I will not tell. Only you and I shall know.” She raised a scroll. “And Lord Reed, if he lives still. When we have the North, we shall send for him to explain it to us himself. But until then, no one shall ever know. Promise me.”

Jon nodded, albeit confused. She looked so adamant now. “Why?”

“Because we mean to fight. For our home, for Rickon...” Sansa said in that icy tone so new and uneasy for Jon to hear from her. “Even if they would believe, no one would fight beside you if they knew. No one would fight beside a Targaryen, let alone Rhaegar’s brood.”

“You mean to fight.”

“I mean to take back what is ours,” Sansa sighed. “Jon, I know I said I’ll do it alone if I have to, but I can’t. I can’t lead an army. I need you...” she stood still now, her eyes piercing his. “Please, Jon. Help me. Teach me how to use a sword and help me take back Winterfell, please.”

He stood slowly, as if the act took a great deal of strength. His mind was racing. “I promise you. I promised you that I will always protect you and I promise you, we will take back the North.” He said softly. “Not because it is ours...”

The door slammed open.

“You must see this,” Davos stood, his expression laden with dread. They rushed to the door.

The four bodies that hung still and lifelessly before were now very much awoken. Ice blue eyes stared at Jon as one, limbs trying to break free from the hook on the necks. Sansa let out a barely sound scream. Jon just stood next to her, frozen.

A man draw his sword.

“Wait!” Jon shouted, rushing across the rampart and down the stairs. Ice blue pairs of eyes followed his every move, undead hands reached toward him.

“Gather the men,” He ordered.

Within minutes the yard filled with men, sleepily walking out to the open and suddenly quickening their steps to get a glimpse, shaken awake by the sight and the sound of those terrible screams.

“Do you believe now?!” Jon shouted, and their rumbling fell silent. “This is what becomes of everyone if we don’t hold back the army of the dead! This is what we fought at Hardhome, this is what became of every men, women and child we left behind! They all march on the wall now to recruit each and every one of you this way!”

He was the leader once more, Sansa could see on his hardened face, fire in his eyes that she’s not seen before. Suddenly she understood, the threat lying under layers of snow was no longer asleep. Tales of old and long forgotten, of a night longer than a generation, death crawling in the shadows hunting the living. Old Nan’s bedtime stories suddenly seemed more real than anything she’s ever known. Chill ran down her spine.

“Cut them down, carefully,” Jon instructed Dolorous Edd. “Put them into crates and seal them in.”

He left the crowd towards Sansa and she ran, straight into his arms. She needed to feel the safety that only his arms could provide her, that she only knew that one time when he held her in this very courtyard just days ago.

“This is why we must take back the North,” he whispered into her hair. “Because I promised to protect you and we need the North behind us to defeat this. We have to defeat this,” His voice chuckled, “the dead are coming, Sansa.”


	2. Dragonstone I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonsa (sibling relationship)

What did he expect? The time since he’s last heard the lords’ council led by Lord Eddard - not exactly father, that didn’t come so easily even in his silent thoughts - seemed to have been a different lifetime altogether yet it was all the same, for weeks on end now. ‘Petty bickering’, Jon thought, ‘we have no time for this.’

“Winter has come. If the maesters are to be believed it’ll be the coldest in a thousand years. We should go home and wait out the storm.” That’s Lord Cerwyn, Jon registered without looking at the man. It seemed to Jon that the bony man repeated his earlier statement word by word. Jon remembered, for it prompted fierce little Lyanna Mormont to stand for him. She was a little girl of merely ten namedays, named after Lyanna Stark, yet she ruled Bear Island more ably than most of the lords and ladies present, three, four times her age. She was also just as stubborn as Lyanna Stark was said to have been. Jon brushed away the thought. Instead she recalled how she cowered those lords, one by one. Cerwyn refused their call to fight Ramsay, yet he was one if not the loudest in his hall this past weeks. In truth most of them refused the call, and Jon felt restless to mete out the fate they truly deserved, yet wisdom for once got the better of him. They needed to unite the North. Robb lost his head for taking a head because he clung to justice, and despite Sansa’s repeated warnings, he was smarter than Robb. Or he tried to be, for the politics of it all only tired him, greatly.

Lyanna Mormont proclaimed him King in the North that day, the first time he sat at the high table with Sansa by his side and tried to listen to this council without drawing his sword. And Lord Glover, another one that he should’ve hanged as a traitor, also proclaimed him his king. The White Wolf he called Jon, who avenged the Red Wedding. Perhaps it was to ensure he’ll not be doubted, Lord Glover, to try and assure Jon. Perhaps they were simply flocking to the winning side and would’ve done exactly the same to Ramsay was it he devoured by the hounds. And perhaps they were all traitors, perhaps he was just as much a traitor who merely a few moons ago usurped Robb’s place at Lyanna Mormont’s behest. But Robb was dead, like countless others. Jon shook his head to come back from his thoughts.

“Your grace?” They we’re all looking at her, Sansa called for her. Realising his absentmindedness, she countered instead.

“Lord Cerwyn, with due respect. You’ve all proclaimed Jon to be your king. Have you done so only to refuse his call once more? That is treason, my Lord.” ‘Speaking my mind,’ Jon added silently to himself as Sansa concluded. An eerie silence fell on the hall.

“My Lady,” Cerwyn responded, his voice shaking. “I don’t doubt King Jon and what he’s seen. But these are just stories, my wetnurse used to tell them to frighten me when I was a child.”

“Aye, you’ve forgotten to grow up, you southern twat.” ‘Tormund’, Jon tried to hide his amusement looking his right at Giantsbane. He was to depart for Eastwatch tomorrow to man the wall but today, he was here to be the thorn in the side of every northern Lord one last time. Cerwyn didn’t sound as amused as Jon felt at the interruption.

“By the Gods, your grace, this wildling has insulted me!” Cerwyn burst out, so profoundly that he’s spit along the words. Lord Forrester next to him annoyedly wiped off his shoulder. His court was rapidly becoming a den of disorderly toddlers indeed, Jon thought, albeit as much as he could recall Rickon never managed to stoop as low as some of these ‘lords’. With a sigh he stood.

“My lords, ladies,” his voice was tempered, firm, not betraying the frustration beneath. “And Lord Cerwyn’s underage pretender. My lord you’ve just called me a liar fallen only short of saying so, and you cry insult? Aye, you’re a southern twat.”

“Jon!” Sansa grabbed his arm but he refused to take notice.

“Forgive me, my lords, but how many of you have seen what lies beyond the wall? How many of you have seen Hardhome?” It still haunted him, the nightmares that came each night, ice blue eyes staring back at him and arms lifted slowly, smugly, and all of them rising as one.

“Lord Cerwyn I do not see where the insult is. See, you are from south of the wall. To the FREEFOLK, you are a southerner. And, you keep whinging endlessly, that does make you a twat in the eyes of some. If you heed my advice, my Lord, you grow a spine before the dead arrive.”

He took a deep breath, nodding to Davos. It is time.

“My Lord Cerwyn, if you may accompany me to the yard. And you my lords and ladies, if you may follow.” Despite his invitation to Cerwyn he offered his arm to Sansa, who took it with a look of anticipation and bewilderment in her stare.

“What are you doing, Jon?” Sansa hissed under a slight smile as he lead her out to the yard. ‘Convince them’ was the response he didn’t bother to give her.

Slowly they all formed a circle the yard. Cerwyn ever the fool not knowing what to expect stood in the centre.

“Do not fret so visibly, my Lord, I do not wish to part with you just yet.” Jon said bemused and the air filled with hearty laughter as he continued. “If I taught the old way to each of you who called me a liar or disobeyed me, this yard would seem much larger than it does now. Widen the circle.”

They all began to press backwards, against the tents and stalls. Guards turned to watch, the smithy and the kitchen folk stepped out to see what curiosity drove out the highborn to the yard in mass.

Davos instructed the two men following him to put the crate they carried in the middle of the circle thus formed.

“Are you certain of this?” He asked in a low voice as he walked past him, and Jon nodded.

“Which one is it?” But Davos only shook his head.

He slowly approached the crate. It was still, forcing him to wonder if there was anything in there still worth all this hassle. They carried this thing around like some priceless possession for the most of their campaign to retake the North, only for this opportunity, this moment. Jon didn’t even remember when the idea came to him. It wasn’t when he told Edd to load them crates on a wagon and send them after him. It wasn’t even when he received them. For a while they dragged them around wherever they went, as if it was the most natural thing to do while one was travelling around from keep to yet another keep begging for support. Sometime between Manderly’s letter that they’ve had too many Bolton men in White Harbor to join his cause, and Lord Glover so harshly defusing Sansa’s reminder of his fealty to House Stark, Jon realised he will have use of these one day when the opportunity presented itself. They were his greatest weapon, his greatest shame, and his best chance to win, all in one. ‘House Stark is Dead’, Glover told Sansa that day. He’ll show them death.

He unbuckled the side, than the other. Carefully, he kicked off the lid and promptly retreated a few steps, yet there was no movement. He stepped closer once more to see, slight relief registering somewhere within him at the sight. It wasn’t the boy.

“Ser Alliser. If you may serve me once more!” He gave his last order to his first ranger as he kicked the crate. He could swear the shriek that followed could be heard for miles, and looking around, he saw the dreadful shock on their faces. A moment of pause, just enough to draw his sword, and it moved. Jumped. Ran, fell as the crate buckled holding up its legs then it stood and rushed towards him in that unruly sickening fashion so recognisable. His arms reached for Jon yet Jon ducked and rolled on the ground, his sword at its neck from behind before it could move forward a single step more. This was risky. It could’ve attacked Alys Karstark standing just in front of him, frozen with fear in her eyes, yet the call of the blade proved to be stronger just as Jon expected and it turned. So Jon repeated the same motion, thereby making sure they all saw what Alys Karstark saw. He glanced at Sansa.

“Finish it!” Sansa shouted, her voice not betraying the fear she also must’ve felt. And so Jon turned and cut off an arm. It fell a few feet away and crawled, as the wight fell and Jon plunged Longclaw into where once a heart pumped life within the body of the man who once had been. Then it was done. Jon picked up the arm with the tip of his sword, and lifted it above a torch, the folk giving way to keep their distance. It didn’t move anymore, whatever magic had hold on the rotting flesh had already departed, but Jon meant to burn it. He tossed the arm on the fallen body and let it all burn in silence. Stunned eyes stared into the flames, of pale dreadful faces surrounding him as he stood there, waiting.

“Tell me, Lord Cerwyn,” Jon said coolly, “Do you still think me a liar?” He stepped closer to the flames. “Ser Alliser, I thank you for your service. And now your watch is ended.”

He looked at Davos then. He could swear he’s seen smugness on the face of the old knight, and pride. Lyanna Mormont’s voice dragged him back before he could allow himself a moment to share in the the sense of triumph he saw in Davos’ eyes.

“He’s my King! From this day, until the end of my days, the King in the North!” The little girl shouted. They all roared as one, as if they were proclaiming him again. They needed so little to get so aroused, they were so easy to manipulate even by a ten year old. Jon pitied them.

“I trust this matter is settled for good, Lord Cerwyn.” He hissed as he walked past the shaking lord.

***

“In truth, I do not know him much.” Tyrion said nonchalantly. “I traveled with him to the wall. He was eager to join the Nights Watch and be the Protector of the realm of men, or is it the Shield that guards the realm of men? I cannot recall.”

“But what was he like?” Daenerys grew impatient. More often than not her hand refuses to give her the answers she required, and this was proving to be one of those times.

“Only a boy, your grace. Timid, a bit brooding. But honourable to the core, and with a good heart. I did consider him a waste at the wall, was he a trueborn he could’ve been so much more.”

“Well, he did become much more,” Daenerys hissed.

“Yes, that he did.” Tyrion dipped from his cup only to have it grabbed from his hand by the Queen. He smirked.

“How does a bastard become king in the North?” She asked, her frustration only slightly tamed as she spoke the words.

“How, indeed.” Varys stepped in. “My little birds sing a tale of a disgraced Lord Commander begging for support from the Northern Houses for his sister to retake her ancestral home. Lady Sansa it seems grew desperate enough to bid on the side no one would’ve dared, and she won. The very same lords proclaimed Jon Snow their king, and Sansa is now the Lady of Winterfell by her side.”

“I did say that she may survive us yet,” Tyrion added, bemused. “And there again, I was right. I wonder what my former lady wife would say about the fortune of her bastard brother. And his election above her.”

“The birds sing nothing more than that they rule. Surprisingly enough, the northerners seem to be content with them, there’s no news of trouble from the North.”

“And yet they are traitors still,” Daenerys noted. “The North is part of the Seven Kingdoms, by calling himself King, Jon Snow drove the North into open rebellion. What did the priestess mean about telling me what he’s seen?”

Both her advisors shook their heads, in silent dismissal of her question. “The Starks ruled the North for thousands of years,” Tyrion advised, “the Kings of Winter they were called.”

“Then Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen and they ruled no more.” Daenerys countered, annoyed by the history lesson. “Did you write to this Jon Snow as I asked?” Tyrion nodded.

“And what did you write?”

“What I did not write, Your Grace. I must admit that I did omit any mention about the bending of the knee.” Daenerys opened her mouth to speak so Tyrion quickly followed up with an explanation. “Starks don’t fare well travelling south. If I may remind you, your own father burned alive his grandfather, strangled to death his uncle. Such requests would ensure he doesn’t even consider paying you a visit, Your Grace, and we would be none the wiser about why this red priestess so adamantly tried to convince us to invite him.”

She nodded. “He has reason to doubt me.”

“He has just as much reason to doubt me as well,” her hand added with melancholy in his voice.

“Will he come?” Daenerys wondered. “Or will I have to take my unsullied and pay him a visit?”

“That would not be as wise as it sounds, Your Grace,” Varys’ response sounded nonchalant as usual, but he shot a weary look at Tyrion. “We have no information about the forces he commands, and... it is said he’s good at commanding them. The greatest swordsman the North has ever seen, he is called.”

“Lances are longer than swords, Lord Varys,” Daenerys countered. “His sword is of no use if he gets impaled on Grey Worm’s lance before he draws it. Then again, it is not of an immediate concern.”

“No it is not.” Tyrion barely hid the sigh as he grabbed his cup once more.

***

“I was rather reckless today in the hall,” he said softly, staring into the goblet in his hand.

Sansa sat in the chair next to him, both facing the fire in the hearth of the lord’s solar that was now Sansa’s. “Cerwyn’s face was priceless, when you killed that ... thing.” Her eyes were smiling as she spoke, such a rarity that they startled Jon for a moment.

“Ser Alliser Thorne. He was first ranger, appointed by me. Then he organised mutiny against me.” Jon explained, his voice emotionless. So many things happened since then, the sharp pain he once felt has since turned into a slight ache. He tried to recall each and every insult ever uttered by the man to further dull its presence. “Truth is he was a thorn in my side. Ever since I arrived at Castle Black he made his dislike of me abundantly clear. I should’ve never trusted the man. I appointed him based on merit, not based on his opinions and that was a mistake.” He sighed. “Then again I appointed my steward based on his opinion of me and that was a mistake as well. There’s a certain lesson in that I am sure.”

Sansa sighed.

“You’ve changed, Jon.” A flicker of a smile appeared in the corner of his mouth. He’s changed but was it for the better? He’s always thought that a man was defined by his honour, his loyalty and bravery. Protect the weak and the innocent and do what is right. Ned Stark taught him as much and he tried to live by those teachings. Yet where did they get him, he couldn’t tell. In the end his bravery only earned defeat at Hardhome, it would’ve earned certain death when he went to deal with Mance Rayder, had Stannis Baratheon not appeared with his sellsword cavalry. He was loyal to the Night watch and he’s lost Ygritte. He was honourable, honest and he did what he could to protect the innocent. He got stabbed to death for it. No, the Jon Snow who the North chose as their king was not that man. Something has changed, lessons have been learned in the days he lay lifeless on a table in Castle Black, for he could not trace this restlessness, this eagerness to be different to anywhere else than his own dead body on that table, as if the blood he lost in the snow contained the honour and loyalty of Lord Commander Snow. The man who returned didn’t think so much of things such as honour and loyalty. He wasn’t to abide by them, he wasn’t defined by them. Like Sansa said, he had to be smarter than that. It really was a game, played with the lives of thousands, and that of the players themselves. He could see that, and part of him still despised himself for being a part of the game. Yet while he couldn’t define in himself the difference that made this Jon Snow willing to take part, he knew what drove him. The only thing that remained was the drive to protect the innocent. That is what he cared about, Sansa at the top of his endless list of people to protect. Most of them were nameless, he sometimes thought of how he’s never seen their faces, recalling Ned Stark’s words: being a warden is like having thousands of children. He had thousands of worries now. The lesson he learned was that honour wasn’t enough to protect them, loyalty and bravery only got a man so far, but to win, you had to play the game. So he has set himself to learn, because he was hard set to survive.

“I enjoy these evenings,” Sansa’s soft voice dragged him back into the present.

“Aye, how comfortable it is to sit by the fire sipping wine, instead of the cold tent we used to share,” Jon agreed and she laughed heartily. That was the goal, to make her laugh. Jon was determined to not let her icy demeanour consume her.

“You said I have to be smarter than Robb, or father.” Jon noted. “I am, Sansa. I will be. And I will listen.”

“You didn’t seem to be willing to listen,” she glanced at him with a smirk.

“Nay, not when you defy me in front of all them. But I hear you.”

“You called him father,” she reached her hand to lay on his. “Does that mean you accept him? Does that mean we’ll talk about it?”

Jon’s eyes spoke of a dozen emotions or more, fighting for space to be felt, to be allowed. “I keep up the lie,” he whispered. “I remember you advising so, and I follow your advice. There isn’t much else to it.”

She stood. “Don’t portray your emotional turmoil as obedience to me, Jon. Don’t lie to yourself as well,” she said, her words harsh yet her soft tone softened the blow they struck him with. “I know you,” he heard her behind his back, “you’re the most honourable man I know, it must be torture for you to lie. To be thorn as this. And I want you to know that you can talk to me about it.” She sat back into the chair next to him now, a pile of linen in her hand. She began to sew and he watched for a while in silence. Her fingers were steady, long and shapely, guiding the needle with such pace and confidence that could only come with years of experience and enjoyment both. He wondered what she was working on, in almost every night that they could steal a few hours to sit together she took to work sooner or later, and he could see how a pile of white cloth a mere days ago now had something like frills and strings attached to it now.

“Being who you are doesn’t make you less of a Stark.” She said softly, never lifting her gaze from her work, as if she merely conversed about the weather. “You are my cousin. You are half a Stark just as we believed you were.”

“And half a Targaryen.” He sighed. “It is a wonder. I cannot wrap my head around it and imagine that a Targaryen sired me.”

Sansa looked up for a split second. “I am sure you know how he did it.” The voice was stern, yet he could see the signs of a cheeky smile in the corner of her mouth.

“I do not feel like any kind of prince, that is what I meant.”

“I know”, she noted. “But that is because you were not raised as one. Joffrey was, and what did become of him?”

“No, I was raised a bastard,” he sipped from his goblet, enjoying the sour taste. A piece of wood cracked in the fire, and he stared at it as if it could come alive.

“Have you decided whether you would stake your claim?”

“No.” He rushed his answer. “I mean, I’ve not thought about it, honestly. It would draw too much attention to us. We cannot fight on two fronts.” She nodded.

For a while they sat in silence. This is how it was on most of these nights, neither of them too willing to have an attempt at sleep. They both had their share of nightmares that they rather avoided. By now, through their journey around the north gathering support, Jon learned in part and pieced together the rest of what happened to her. They had plenty of time to talk, yet often all they did was sitting around a camp fire or laying in their tent in silent understanding, and when they spoke, they reminisced of old times and stories of loved ones who were long gone. Occasionally, a thought or two, reminders of how they lost them and how they endured slipped out before they caught them, bringing about the same silence that offered the security and understanding that they were no longer alone, they were safe now. Even as they prepared to fight for their lives and risk what ever little they have left, those nights assured of safety they haven’t known since that fateful day they both left Winterfell. He often wondered at the grace with which she carried herself after all her suffering, occasionally catching the smallest of signs of pain at a certain movement or another, yet never flinching, never complaining. He thought of his own scars, bodily as well as the scars on his heart, and he often wondered if she outmatched them. In his mind, in moments like those he wished for nothing more than to kill Ramsay Bolton again and again.

“We have to be rid of Littlefinger, Sansa.”

“We do.” She looked up, straight into his eyes. “I will figure a way, but for now we need his men. You need the knights of the Vale.”

Jon pondered on it. “I remember father... Lord Stark saying something about keeping all your treasures in one pocket. It only makes it easier for your treasure to be stolen.”

“What are you implying?” Sansa asked, her eyes fixed on her work once again but her tone betrayed a keen interest.

“I am not implying.” Jon leaned back in the chair, watching her. “I am saying that we need a way to secure his men without him. We need to secure a fighting force that has nothing to do with him. And I want to know what he wants. He would not linger around if he didn’t want something. He’s playing the game and it unnerves me that I don’t know how.”

“I know what he wants,” she whispered. “He can go on wanting for a thousand years, and still won’t have what he wants.”

She leaned close to the clothing she lifted to her mouth and bit the thread.

“Here,” She said, her face overtaken by a certain pride. “You have to try it on, I want to see.”

Jon was struck with awe as she lifted the cloth and a shirt emerged. “Is that for me?”

“Of course it is. You have but two shirts as I can tell, and you’re a king now. You need to dress befitting.”

It was Jon’s time to laugh. “You would dress me in all kind of pomp if you had your way.”

“You would never let me have my way! But I will make sure you look the part. Not the southern pompous princeling that you were born to be, but the king in the north. Now try it on.”

Jon stood, and took the shirt. He slowly took off the boiled leather garments, and his shirt that’s clearly seen better days. Forcing himself not flinch as her gaze settled on his scars, he pulled on the shirt. Soft white linen, the direwolf sigil embroidered above his heart.

“A little white wolf, for the White Wolf.” Sansa said softly as she stepped to him, her gaze following his own as it settled on the sigil. His fingers touched the fine needlework, as if petting the little wolf. “This is beautiful Sansa, thank you. You shouldn’t have...”

“I should. And I will.” She stood, facing him. “It gives me joy, Jon. It gives me great pride to be here, to be who we are and do what we do and to know you are by my side. This is my way of thanking you. For being here with me.”

The door cracked open after a few soft knocks and Maester Wolkan appeared.

“Forgive me my Lady, Your Grace...” the maester’s eyes settled on Jon in his somewhat undressed state, clearly wondering what to make of the sight as his plump cheeks burned crimson from his embarrassment at his probable interruption.

“Look, maester,” Jon explained with a wide smile, like a little boy showing off his nameday present. “My sister made me a new shirt. She thinks mine old are unsuitable for my newly royal self.”

Relief settled on Wolkan’s face mixed with honest delight, brows raised and eyes wide, that made Jon even more amused at his expression. He handed him a scroll. “My lady it is fine work,” he touched the linen for a brief moment, “and fine fabric.”

“I ordered it when we took Winterfell and I will make more of these. It took a while for Lord Manderly to procure, it is I believe from Essos.” Jon looked at her amazed.

“You bought this? How much was it...”

“Nothing,” Sansa interrupted. “Manderly offered it and was adamant that I shall not pay a penny, so I took the opportunity. After all, he refused our call, surely he can be generous to make us forget it. There are other fabrics in his gift, I’ll be busy clothing both of us for a while.”

Jon was already reading the small scroll.

“Dragonglass,” he murmured registering what he’s read. “This is from Samwell Tarly, a true friend.” He held up the scroll to emphasise his words.

“I sent him to Old Town. He writes the dragonglass we need is to be found on Dragonstone. Mines full of it, a mountain even.”


	3. Dragonstone II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys (in the negative), slight Jonsa

Jon sat in front of the weirwood tree, gently cleaning, oiling his sword. Longclaw didn’t really need much care, but Jon liked doing it regardless. It allowed him to focus, to clear his mind from his thousands of worries. Sansa, as always, was on top of his list. Gods, she knew how to get his attention. How to get under his skin. He sighed, and allowed himself a smile. Sansa and he made a whole, Davos said once. Jon was the force and she was the wit behind the force. Without her Jon would’ve cut down half the North for treason. Without her he would’ve beaten Ramsay Bolton’s head into a plump. Without her he would’ve died crushed to death on the battlefield, because the force didn’t always see reason - it was guided by boiling anger and thirst for revenge. He was revenge personified that day, Sansa was the cold sense of reason. He heard the shuffling of fabric in the snow but didn’t look up. He knew it was her.

“Are you angry with me?” He shook his head, wiping his sword one last time before he sheated it. He looked at her then, as she sat down beside him.

“You? Are you angry with me?”

“No,” she said a bit too hastily for him to believe it.

“Sansa... don’t lie to me.” He offered a slight smile and a nudge with his shoulder.

“I am not angry, I am frustrated because you want to go, you’ll leave me behind and I don’t know why.”

“I told you all why. Dragonglass. Dragons, fire breathing monsters. Fire kills wights and there are tens of thousands for us to kill. A couple of those monsters could mean much needed help and she has three of them.”

“Is it truly why you want to go?” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Do you mean if I want to go because of her?”

Sansa didn’t respond at first.

“She’s the last Targaryen.”

“Not the last. And she’s not the right claimant either. She’s an invader.” Jon sighed and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

“I want to meet her. I want to see one of the kind I’m said to be. Are you angry because I’m curious? Imagine it Sansa, she’s taken cities in Essos, and she ruled there. She must be formidable, perhaps she’s a dragon herself, by now even that wouldn’t surprise me. Some kind of shapeshifter.”

Sansa laughed aloud. “I know you’ve seen many things Jon but this is a bit far fetched.”

“But you laughed. So it can’t be so bad.”

“She’s said to be beautiful. Littlefinger told me...”

“Littlefinger,” Jon interrupted, not even attempting to hide the anymosity in his voice.

“Yes, Littlefinger. He was keen to tell me how Targaryens used to marry their brothers and sisters.”

“Is that what troubles you? That I just go off and marry Daenerys?” Jon was puzzled, honestly unable to reason her behaviour and why it was this that she brought up if she attempted to convince him to stay.

“You call her by her name already.” Sansa hissed. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Because she’s said to be my aunt?” Jon took a deep breath. “She’s my father’s sister. Perhaps, just perhaps I could get a glimpse of what he was like through her,” he whispered. “Don’t deny me that Sansa. I need it. I need to make sense of this soon enough, I’m running out of time.”

Jon stood to stretch his legs, standing tall in front of Sansa. She looked him up then. It was something she did time to time, as if she wanted to register his presence really there with her in that moment.

“Don’t bend the knee.” Sansa whispered.

“Never.”

“And don’t... you know what.” Jon couldn’t help but laugh.

“Is this what troubles you then? This talk of her beauty and of marriage... I assure you I’ve no intention to marry her, Sansa. That is not why I go.”

She didn’t respond, just staring at his boots. He crouched down in front of her to face her. “How would that work? I refuse to bend the knee then hand over the North as a wedding present?” He was smiling and she laughed with him. “I will not, Sansa. Even if I did, it’d be worthless coming from me.”

“I am being foolish, ain’t I?” She asked as Jon stood straight once more, reaching out his hand to help her to her feet.

“Aye, you are foolish, woman.” They walked in silence toward the gate of the godswood. “I won’t miss court, I must say. By the Gods, Ned Stark must’ve had one truly miserable life with all these whinging lordlings. I feel sorry for you.”

“I’ll hold the North until you return and I’ll keep up the preparations. You have my word.” She stood and faced him as she said it, and Jon felt immense pride rushing through him at hearing her words, seeing the determination in her eyes.

“I’ve no doubt.” He cupped her face in his hands like he often did, and placed a kiss on her forehead. Ghost came between them, nudging his nose to his thigh. He knew of Jon’s leaving plans, of course he did. Ever since he made the decision to leave two days ago, and waited to figure how to tell, his faithful friend was constantly by his side. Even during the nights, there was no dream of running in the woods, no taste of blood on his tongue when he woke - instead, he dreamt of uneasy calm by the fire. He tried to warg into the animal earlier today to see what he saw and watched as Littlefinger hushed a servant away in one of the alleyways. He left Ghost as he felt the wolf’s anger rise, showing teeth and growling, ready to attack the man. He didn’t want to strike like that, although it would’ve given him great pleasure to experience the gruesome death of the snake through Ghost. “And you, boy,” Jon knelt to pet the direwolf. “Sansa protects the North and you’ll protect Sansa. Keep her safe until my return.” He leaned closer and repeated, merely whispering the words into the wolf’s ear, “Keep her safe, from him.”

***

The road to White Harbor took them a mere three days, Jon pushed on and they rode hard, straining the horses. Davos tried to ask why but Jon wasn’t in a talkative mood. It was one of those things about this new Jon, he remarked to himself, this new him was rather moody. But he knew what caused his uneasiness. He settled in a chair with a horn in his hand, and Davos settled beside him. The cabin was small, there was barely space to walk around the table in its middle.

“Gods it is good we arrived when we did, I fear the horses wouldn’t have gone for much longer.” He offered nonchalantly, his eyes watching Jon from their corner. “Your grace, you may wish to speak before you explode in anger.” Jon looked at him.

“One word. Littlefinger.”

Davos nodded.

“He had the guts to come after me to the crypts. To the crypts, Davos! And he had the guts to remind me that he’s saved us in the battle, before he claimed that he loves Sansa. I swear I should’ve ripped his head off!” He took a deep breath, “I am not happy leaving Sansa with Littlefinger.”

“If I may offer advice...” Davos begun, but Jon interrupted, “that is why you’re here, Ser Davos. So indulge me, what is your advice?”

“You need to get rid of Littlefinger.”

“Aye, that’s nothing new.” Jon fiddled with the string of his leather jerkin. “Sansa says we need his men.”

“That you do.” Davos stared through the tiny window. “We’ll set sail any moment now, your grace.”

Jon watched the old knight, wondering why he chose to remain beside him. They spoke about it enough but Jon never really understood his reasons. He’s had a wife somewhere. He’s had children, he lost his firstborn at Blackwater Bay but he’s had little ones somewhere. He chose to serve Stannis away from his family, and now he chose him. He said the things Jon meant to fight were the reason. Serving a king who deserved it was a reason, but Jon doubted that he deserved it. If only Davos knew, he thought whenever Davos gave him his reasons. If only he could grasp the level of anger boiling deep inside, the will to burn them all who wronged them. Burn them all. It was a distinct urge that came to Jon deep in the night, and went only with a great amount of willpower, to bring forth better thoughts, of Sansa, of Ghost, and of home. It was one of those things he was yet to figure out. He watched as the Onion Knight took a seat, leisurely pouring some ale to himself. He loved the man, he truly did. Davos never asked for anything from him, never complained, never schemed. Unlike Jon himself. He felt guilt forming that familiar knot in his throat. If only he knew. Could he really trust this man? He knew he already did.

“Littlefinger came after me in the crypts with a reason, to measure me up. And I lost my temper, I am sure I gave him just what he wanted from me.” He said, before he even thought it through. “He’s scheming. He’s playing a game with us and I’m not yet certain how, but I know that Sansa is at the centre of it.”

“I am sure the Lady Sansa is not...” Davos said, his tone as reassuring as always.

“No, she is not interested.” Jon completed his sentence. “That doesn’t detain Littlefinger. Sansa is beautiful, and she has the right name. What if she won’t allow him into her bed willingly? He’ll just scheme and plan until we all are gone or worse, her trust in us is so broken that she’d rather chose him over us.”

Davos looked at him, understanding in his eyes.

“Sansa told me of the first time she’s met Brienne.” Jon continued, “she chose to remain with Littlefinger. There was her saviour declaring her oath to protect her and Sansa chose to remain in the the grasp of that snake. He’s twisted Brienne’s appearance in her eyes in an instant. Clever man with clever words. And now Sansa is alone with him while I’m sailing to Dragonstone.”

“Do you feel guilty about that?”

Jon stared into the horn in his hand, thinking for a moment, wondering if this was a tell-all. “If I allowed myself to feel guilty over everything I should, there’d be room for nothing else, Davos. I must go to Dragonstone.”

“Aye, dragonglass and dragonfire. To kill wights and white walkers.”

“No,” Jon stared straight into the old man’s eyes. “Yes, those are important. But I must go, it must be me. I must see HER.”

Davos raises an eyebrow, his expression expectant of a forthcoming explanation.

“Who am I, Davos?” Jon asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving the knight.

“You’re Jon Snow. You’re king in the North.”

Jon nodded. “Jon Snow, a bastard named king. That is what you know.” He whispered, and Davos leaned forward resting his elbows on the table.

“What if I told you it may not be the whole truth?”

Davos didn’t flinch. The man was smart, it was something that Jon loved about him, he was smart enough to see beyond facades, even if he couldn’t understand what laid beneath the webs of lies.

“It stays between you and me. Only Sansa knows, and it should remain unknown by anyone else, but considering where we are heading, you should know Davos.”

The knight nodded, and Jon could swear he saw some knowledge in his eyes, as if he expected this conversation to come. Jon stood and began pacing in the room, his mind racing to find the words.

“Perhaps start at the beginning, Jon. Your grace.”

Jon chuckled as he stopped looking at the knight. “Just Jon. There’s no one here to wonder why my Hand doesn’t call me by my title, Davos.”

“Your hand?” Davos was honestly surprised. Jon’s never mentioned any notion of appointment, he made it clear before that he wasn’t here for promotion.

Jon walked to the leather saddle bag that held whatever clothing and belongings he possessed. He flinched at Sansa’s words as he recalled them, kneeling to untie the strings. ‘By the time you return your clothing won’t fit in that.’ Sansa, ever the mind for pageantry. His heart filled with the warmth of affection and longing for her company but he brushed it aside. Tucked away, between his shirts he found what he was looking for, small leather pouch closed with a string. He stood and turned to Davos.

“I’ve been meaning to give you this. But you ought to know first the king you serve, should you accept it.” He looked deep into the eyes of the old man sitting in front of him, before he continued. “I have to know that I can trust you, despite how you’ve proven yourself loyal and wise. I cannot lie to you if you take this, if we keep lying to each other then there’s just more and more lies, until we can’t untangle the webs of lies, and lies won’t help us in our fight. There’s a war to come. Not just the dead, Davos. There’ll be one last war after that.”

Davos nodded. It was obvious really - by proclaiming Jon king, the North broke free from the Seven Kingdoms. From the other side, it looked awfully close to an open rebellion. It was only a matter of time before someone came to claim the North. Davos nodded to Jon to continue.

“I was not born in the North.” Jon’s eyes looked for any sign of disbelief but found none. He sighed and continued. “I was born in a Tower in Dorne. It’s called the Tower of Joy, tho what joy my birth brought could be argued. My mother...” Jon paused. He’s never put this in words, ever since he and Sansa have read the scrolls he’s locked this inside him. Now, if he says just now, it’ll no longer be his own, the truth will gain life, and meaning. He felt the weight of it. “My mother was Lyanna Stark, sister of Lord Eddard. He’s obviously not my father.”

Davos nodded, watching his king as he struggled with this revelation. He leaned back in his chair, studying the man. Sturdy build, broad shoulders, not particularly tall or lean, he had a rough demeanour about him so typical to those of the North. He’s had the Stark look through and through, long black curls that were neatly tied in a bun behind his head, revealing a long face lined with worry, deep grey eyes full of knowledge and pain, staring at him as if they meant to pierce through to his core.

“My father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” He said, and Davos felt the shiver running down his spine. He studied Jon once more, but he didn’t see anything new. The same man as a moment ago stood in front of him. Nothing seemed amiss.

“Seven Hells, Davos. Say something.” He uttered with an uneasy laugh and Davos cleared his throat.

“Well, it is.. a revelation for sure. A Targaryen. Heading to meet another Targaryen.”

“Not just a Targaryen, Davos.” Jon stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The Targaryen heir. I do have doubts ever since I’ve learned of it but if true, I am the rightful heir. Not she.”

“She has dragons.”

Jon chuckled. “Aye, we shall meet some dragons. Sansa looked in the library of Winterfell, Targaryens used to bond with their dragons. It’s in their blood. We shall see if that is true. But this is not why I am telling you.”

“You mean to stake your claim on the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon laughed aloud.

“Do you take me as a willing king? I can’t care less about that chair of swords, Davos. I care about the North. Only the North, always the North.” Jon was wondering now if this was a good idea after all. “The dead are coming for us all. I bet they have even less care about the iron throne or who’s ass warms the cold steel of those melted swords.”

Davos nodded. “Why are you telling me?”

Jon took a deep breath, again struggling to find his words. “Because if I am a Targaryen, I have no right to the North. If they knew they’d all scatter, and we’d all be dead soon enough. Sansa bid me to keep up the lie, so they fall into rank behind me when the time comes to fight. But there’ll be a day when I will have to tell, if I am right, I know when that day will come. If I am right, we have set ourselves on a course to that day when we boarded this ship.”

Davos nodded. His gaze fell on Jon’s boots as he mustered his thoughts into order.

“You can refuse to serve me, but if you serve me, know that you serve a pretender. Know that this is all just another web of lies. Know your role and mine and you shall not be caught surprised, and you shall serve me well.”

Jon stood straight in front of the knight. He’s said all he felt the need to. He’s recalled Sansa’s words once more, words that meant to carry more wisdom than idle plans of pageantry. ‘It is a test, if he follows you, if he puts his trust in you, then you pass.’

Davos looked up, his eyes meeting the kings gaze. There was pain in them that he rarely allowed to be seen, and understanding.

“I’ve seen so much shit in these past years. Old gods and red god and seven gods, fanatics burning little children alive, men hanged dead then rising once more, and men driven to despicable deeds by lust of power. You’re a just man, Jon. And your cause is just. You asked me why I’m still around and I told you as much. It seems to me that you’ve not grown dragon wings or any other sort of foolishness by telling me. You’re still the same man.”

Jon couldn’t hold back his sigh of relief as he watched the knight stand from his chair, his eyes never leaving Jon’s. He walked to him and knelt in front of him, and Jon’s heart skipped a beat. He passed.

“Ser Davos Seaworth, I name you Hand of the King. The King in the North, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, what ever that king may be, wherever our fight will take us. You shall serve me well and true, I know it.”


	4. Dragonstone III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys in the negative / slight Jonsa

The winds were cold and sharp, even Jon’s fur lined cloak made so lovingly by Sansa have proven to be utterly ineffective to keep out the powerful gusts that seemed to reach deep to his bones. He shivered, and looking at his trusted companion, he wasn’t alone.

“You lived here,” Jon noted as a matter of fact, just to say something.

“Aye, with Stannis.” Davos wrapped his arm around himself. “It was never a warm place but it certainly used to be warmer than this.”

“I shall lend you my other cloak, Ser. You are of no use if you freeze to death, who will give me advice I can trust then?” Jon smiled, yet his words carried a deeper meaning.

“I must admit I am lacking in advice, Jon.” Davos lowered his voice as if ashamed of his admission. This hand-business carried responsibilities, and he’s felt their challenge clearly. It wasn’t just being by the side of the king, wording his opinions. The king needed him, he trusted him, he trusted he’ll serve well and true he said, he even trusted him with what Davos perceived to be his darkest secret. For he came to know Jon Snow, and the man he knew was not a schemer. He watched as Jon ruled, not always wisely perhaps but justly without fail, bravely, and he knew that doing so based on a lie must’ve been the heaviest burden of it all. He wanted to help, this young man, barely past his 24th nameday, carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders and at times Davos used to wonder if what he felt was not friendship but rather more of the kind of fatherly love and protection. From enemies real and imagined, but mainly from Jon himself. So Davos felt the need to offer advice, and yet he found no wisdom in himself to share.

“She’s cold.” Jon said softly, “and she doesn’t trust me. If Lord Tyrion is to be believed that is understandable, not trusting a stranger. What do you think?”

“I think he’s no Lord. And I think it is best not to rely on his clever words.” Jon nodded, listening. “I also think that while we are here, we ought to reach a conclusion to that sham of a marriage he has to your lady sister.”

Jon flinched at that. Davos kept up appearances, never mentioned again their conversation and Jon was thankful for that, truly thankful. As if the old man understood that he wasn’t just ready to talk about it whenever the need presented itself, and he certainly wasn’t ready to reassess his relations. Certainly not his relation to Sansa. Sansa was his tower of strength, he knew that much, and he wasn’t willing to think about what his heritage meant for the both of them. Swept under the carpet like so many other details and little things he was willing to overlook. He had to focus on the greater picture, he had to focus on his plan.

“I shall speak to him and make sure he signs the paper Sansa prepared.”

“Aye, before they begin to scheme about her role in their conquest, was she his wife.”

The words struck Jon. He didn’t think about that, how could he miss it?

“I tell you, Davos, he shall sign. And there’ll be no conquest of the north, not by force and not by marriage.”

They walked in silence. Jon’s gaze took in the landscape, the stone fortification in front of them so out of place amidst the grass covered hills and stone cliffs, sand beaches beneath washed by the sea. It could’ve been beautiful. It certainly carried a sense of peacefulness about it, if one turned their back to the fort and erased it from their mind, the island offered tranquility that Jon desperately craved. But not like this. They were said to be kept here. Probably until he’s given in and bent the knee, or until one of those beasts breathed fire upon them at her command and they both turned to nothing more but a small pile of ash.

“I don’t like her,” Jon said. “I don’t trust her. I know not what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

Davos nodded, knowing well that there was an explanation forthcoming still.

“She’s been raped and defiled and so many men tried to kill her she didn’t remember their names. Aye, but she remembers the lengthy string of titles assigned to her, most of which she has no right to.”

“She doesn’t know that.” Davos countered. “Think of it from her perspective - she’s convinced to be the last of her kind. Grown up in exile with a vicious brother who filled her head with all kinds of notions of wrongdoings against them that they were to set right.”

Jon stopped and looked at his Hand.

“Aye I spoke to the girl. Missandei. She’s a nice girl, and more forthcoming than the dragon queen, albeit perhaps a bit too shy. Daenerys was sold to some Dothraki warlord in return for an army. The warlord instead gave Viserys Targaryen a different kind of crown, one of molten gold and the vicious brother proved to be less of a dragon, his brains boiled to death in front of Daenerys’ eyes. Then her husband died at the hands of a witch, and the queen set herself on a path to reclaim what she calls her birthright. Somewhere she’s changed her priorities, and freed slaves, though I question her motives.”

“What motives could she have to free slaves far away in Essos if her goal is to reclaim Westeros?” Jon asked, honestly curious. He’s not admitted so clearly, but part of him admired the achievement.

“You ought to speak to them freed slaves yourself, I’d see what you make of it. You are wise, Jon, you’ll put it together. I’m only told she wanted an army and had nothing to pay for it with. The price was set to be a dragon, but would you have been the one with three small dragons, what would you have done?”

“Not give my dearest possession away.”

“Aye, but you mean to have that army, else you have nothing because you can’t invade the Seven Kingdoms with only three dragons.”

Jon sighed. “Just as I mean to have her army now, and her dragons?”

“Something like that. Except there’s no threat, there’s a will to take what is yours. You would play them, trick them. Burn them. You would use what weapon you have and if that’s a dragon so be it, you would burn whomever stands in your way. Like you mean to burn thousands of wights with those dragons.”

“What are you saying?”

Davos ushered them to keep walking, taking Jon by the arm. He was keenly aware of the scattered unsullied men going about their business, appearing and disappearing. They didn’t seem to mind the two strange figures Jon and Davos cast among them, but Davos knew better.

“I am saying she’s determined to do whatever it takes. You should be as well.”

Jon nodded. “And I am. Though, I mean to see more of what she’s made of. I mean to get a sense of her.”

“Perhaps dine with her.”

Jon laughed heartily.

“I do not mean it like that, Ser.”

“No, you do not. But strip away the space of a throne room and servants listing lengthy titles, and you two are but a man and a woman conversing. You soften. So does she.”

“You are advising me to seduce her.”

It was Davos’ time to laugh. “I am not, Jon, truly I am not. I’ve not seen you with a woman since I’ve met you. Though you’ve had vows then. You don’t have vows now,” Davos paused to think. “In truth, would it be such a bad thing for you to have a few hours when you don’t think with your head? It does good to a man’s mind you know.”

Jon’s grin was wide and honest. “What an advice that is, Tyrion would be proud of you. He’s fucked every whore in Wintertown when he first came to the North. But no. If the dragon queen had that than I would become no more than the men who came before, Davos, she lifts a finger and they strip.”

Davos raised an eyebrow. “Tyrion told me of some sellsword who did that,” Jon explained. “In fact, Tyrion was not too far from your advice. He said the queen isn’t entirely opposed to ME. She’s just opposed to what I’m asking and what I represent.”

“So what will you do?”

“Not lay with her. But you’re right, I’ll dine with her. Pray to the Gods that I keep a check on my tongue and not tell her what I think she is.”

“What is that?”

“Raped and defiled, Davos. You and I know of a woman who’s had those things done to her, and worse. Have you ever heard of her boasting of it?”

The old knight shook his head.

***

“He’s handsome. In a way,” Missandei said softly.

“He’s a usurper,” Daenerys fiddled with the pins in her hand, feeling the pull as her friend pulled her silver locks into tiny braids. “Albeit you are right. He’s handsome. Very much so.”

“The old man...”

“Ser Davos,” Daenerys interrupted. “We ought to use their names.”

“Not their titles?”

“No, not their titles.”

“They call you your grace, your grace.”

Daenerys thought of that for a long moment. She couldn’t place it anywhere, reason with it. This Jon Snow, and his hand did indeed address her as they should. But then, they refused to acknowledge her. “You were saying?”

“Ser Davos asked me if you’d be willing to share your supper with... Lord Snow.”

Daenerys laughed aloud. What an amusing idea, she thought, as she listened. “Ser Davos said, perhaps your meeting was not as it was ought to be, and perhaps it would help to find common ground if you and the Lord Snow were able to speak without... without the paegantries.”

She didn’t respond. She recalled in her mind the two men, standing in front of her as she sat on the throne of her ancestors. She recalled the shiver at looking into those dark grey eyes, as she walked toward him. He held her gaze. Not many dared to hold her gaze. Daenerys tried to recall the man, head to toe. The shiver she felt, whenever he spoke, that she could not place anywhere. She knew herself better than to name it idle girlish fantasies upon seeing a handsome man, she wasn’t that kind of a woman. There was something, a connection, hazy, buried deep inside her. He stirred something in her when his gaze met hers, and she felt as if her eyes were open doors, that would’ve led him straight to her core had she allowed him in.

“Tell Ser Davos that Lord Snow is to dine with me. In my chambers.” She said, her voice betraying her thoughts far away from the present. “And chose one of those Mereneese dresses for me for the occasion.” Missandei grinned behind her.

***

They sat in silence for most of their meal. It was simple enough, roasted pigeon with all the surroundings it required, well made, albeit Jon wasn’t particularly fond of the seasoning. He kept wondering if he should tell her, the cook clearly ought to learn the use of salt.

It was uncomfortable. He felt so out of place, as if he was a young boy again. His mind kept returning to his sixteenth nameday as he stood in the room in Wintertown with Ros untying her dress. The gripping feeling he felt now wasn’t entirely different from the one he felt then.

The room was more of a solar, with their table moved to the window - allowing Jon to escape the suffocating feeling by staring out to the open sea. She sat opposite to him, and behind her was the door. It was all so carefully choreographed, Jon thought. To taunt inside him a man’s desires, the door open halfway just to give a glimpse of a bed made up, with her sitting in front of him in a dress that left her shoulders bare, that left the valley between her breasts so clearly defined, only hidden by locks of curled silver hair whenever she moved.

“You ought to advise the cook...” Jon said, his voice betraying his thoughts in its raspy tone. He cleared his throat. “You ought to advise the cook, the seasoning could use some salt. Your grace.”

She smiled. Jon wondered how this woman, looking so innocent, how this petite being burned slavers alive and fought battles atop a dragon.

“I agree my Lord. See he’s not really used to cook in the fort, I presume he’s more used to the village kitchen. But we needed a cook, and I am more inclined to employ the villagers.”

Jon nodded, sipping from his cup. He kept sipping from this cup throughout, in truth there was nothing to sip.

“Allow me,” she stood then, and poured him wine. Jon raised an eyebrow as she leaned close to him, as much at her serving him as her scent filling his nostrils.

“Missandei said your Hand wished you to dine with me.”

There it was. Decision time.

“Aye. Ser Davos is a wise man. He believes perhaps we ought to talk about our differences in a different.. setting. Less pageantry.”

“What difference does that make to our differences?” She asked, an eyebrow raised, violet eyes settled in Jon’s own.

“Exactly my question, your grace.” Jon shrugged. In that moment, he realised how to play this game.

“I care not of your business, Your Grace, this whole matter of a throne made of swords. To speak the truth, I care not of your name, your father’s name or his deeds. Not even those against my own kin.”

“Then you may as well bend the knee,” she said softly, her eyes betraying interest as she sipped from her cup.

“You’ve not heard me, your grace. I care for the North. I care about what is coming to kill us all. When they finished to kill us all they’ll merely recruit us and then we’ll all march south and kill them all. Or you, should you be the one warming that iron chair.”

“Why shouldn’t I then just wait until your dead erase all of my enemies in Westeros?” She asked and Jon frowned.

“Perhaps because you claim to be its queen?”

“I am it’s queen, Lord Snow. It is not a claim, it is the truth.” Jon shivered at the icy tone of her words.

“Well then it occurs to me that it is ought to be your responsibility to protect it. Not the North your grace. But once the dead wiped us all out and we are nothing more but rotting blue eyed corpses crossing the Trident, that will be your responsibility. There may be a hundred thousand marching on the wall. If they defeat the north, they’ve added as good as half a million to their numbers. Forgive me, your grace, how do you mean to defeat six hundred thousand with nothing but 8000 unsullied?”

“I have dragons.”

“Aye you do. They seem to be the answer to everything for you.”

Daenerys sat back in the chair. She was clear that this was a game of words, but she could not fathom where they led. She saw him glance at the door behind her, she saw him glance between her breasts, even as she poured him wine she leaned so close he must’ve smelled her perfume. Yet he spoke of dead men. She felt the itch to break through his barriers then.

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“You gained an army by burning slavers. You freed a city under siege by burning ships. I’m told there’s a hord of Dothraki on Dragonstone because you burned their khals. Burn them all, it is then. How do three dragons burn six hundred thousand? Or do you mean to add the millions of poor souls in the south to that number only to be rid of one single woman? The one who sits on the chair you say is your own.”

“What does the North say about Cersei Lannister” she changed the subject, for his words cut deep, deeper than she was prepared to allow him to.

“The North or I?” Jon asked, slightly bemused at his ability to catch her off guard.

“Is it not the same?”

“The North says about Cersei Lannister what they would say about you, Your Grace. For the pleasantry of this conversation to be maintained, it is better not to repeat. But you know already. You know I don’t bend the knee.” Jon drank from his cup, his eyes never leaving hers, hoping his voice did portray the casual nonchalance he hoped to say them with. He didn’t want to go that way with this conversation.

Daenerys swallowed. Here they were then. He didn’t bend the knee because his country does not want to bend the knee. It doesn’t matter to whom, so this wasn’t about her. He’s said this much just now. She quickly congratulated Ser Davos, indeed this conversation was proving to be useful for her, at least, if not that much useful for the king he’s served. King. She flinched at her own thoughts naming him as such.

“What do you say about Cersei Lannister then?”

Jon sighed, albeit this time as part of the act. He knew already that he’ll play this card tonight, sooner or later.

“You want the truth?” He’s asked softly. She nodded, her gaze softening on him in line with his tone.

“When I was a boy I left for Castle Black the day my father and two sisters left for Kings Landing. He was to serve as Hand of the King, my sister Sansa got betrothed to the crown prince. She was a little girl of foolish dreams of knights and castles and crowns and love songs. She was a good girl, a true little lady in the making. My younger sister, Arya... she was wild, she wanted to be the First Lady knight of Westeros I’m sure of it.”

“Fast forward to the present. My father was beheaded by that crown prince, a vile tyrant who enjoyed beating and humiliating his betrothed in front of the whole court, stripping naked a mere girl of fourteen and see her beaten by the Kingsguard. He took her to see my father’s head on the spike regularly. Until he grew tired of her, but you see, she had the right name, so she had to be caged and they married her to your Lord Hand. To his credit he had the decency not to force himself on my sister when she’s been held there tormented by Joffrey, all the while the rest of my family got slaughtered at a wedding by Lannister men. Do you know what happened to her after they parted ways?”

She shook her head. She honestly didn’t know much, she’s never asked. Her thoughts kept trailing off toward a realisation, that these were people. They suffered.

“She had no one. Her only aunt turned on her. Someone she trusted sold her off. As she’s put it, she’s been saved from those who murdered her family to be sold to others who murdered her family. She was married off to a Bolton, son of the man who stabbed my brother Robb to death at that wedding, the same man who organised that betrayal. And his son was a real piece of shit, your grace. You say you know suffering. The man cut off... the man castrated Theon Greyjoy for his enjoyment. Held him tied to a cross for months. He’s locked Sansa in a room and what ever he did to her every night...” she saw his fists clench on the table, knuckles white from the strength that went into holding back what ever boiled within him. “She once told me, she will not go back there alive. If I could, I’d kill him every day. Every time I look at my sister I wish I could kill him again. He was allied to the Lannisters. You ask what I think of Cersei Lannister. I don’t know her, I’ve never met her. I know the look in my sister’s eyes when she hears her name. That’s enough for me to want to kill her.”

Jon stood, looking out the window, away from her. He’s got carried away, he’s said too much. He didn’t plan to. When did he become so talkative, he wondered. How easy it was to talk to a stranger who knew nothing about them. But he wanted her to see that they were there, they lived, they were hurt, that she had no right. She had no right to just fly in atop a dragon and claim overlordship over them.

He felt the hand on his shoulders.

“I’ve said too much, I am sorry.” He whispered.

“There is no need to apologise,” Daenerys’ voice was soft and soothing. Jon turned to face her.

“I don’t apologise to you, Your Grace. It was not mine to tell. You’d never hear my sister reasoning her entitlement to her home with having been raped and defiled to get there. I had no right to share.” His eyes were stern, and she could see the pain in them that he carried. Her hand softly travelled down his upper arm, until it reached his fist and cupped it in her tiny fingers.

“I am glad you shared.” She said, as she watched his gaze follow her hand.

“You don’t understand, your grace.”

“I do understand suffering.”

Jon shook his head. “No, it is not about suffering,” his voice was once more that of the king he was. He stepped back. “We fought for what we have, same as you. You can’t just show up with your unsullied and your Dothraki and your dragons and claim you have the right. You can’t just demand our trust. If you want us to trust you, then you are to earn it just like everyone else. Boasting of your suffering won’t make you more entitled in my eyes, your grace.”

Daenerys stiffened at that. His words stung, so deeply she was taken surprise by their effect like daggers piercing through her skin, stinging. “I thank you for this time, your grace.” He bowed his head, and made for the door. Daenerys watched, somewhere inside a slight sparkle of hope that he would look back. But he didn’t. And so he was gone, leaving her with her thoughts.

She failed, she knew it then. Whatever she hoped from this evening, from bending the knee, to the need to change her bedlinen, to just asserting herself, she failed. He on the other hand, he had her there. He’s allowed her to lead a conversation that he clearly knew the direction of, and Daenerys wondered if he even knew the effect it’ll have on her. She thought of Theon Greyjoy, shy and timid, always hiding behind his sister. She thought of Sansa Stark, a woman she’d never met. Tyrion said her to be a beauty, that he’s enjoyed her company in the rare moments she wasn’t sitting by the window crying her eyes out or starving herself. Jon Snow spoke of her with such affection behind his words of all the cruelty done to her, that the shallow little girl Daenerys imagined grew to a woman not at all unlike herself in her eyes. To Daenerys’ surprise, she wished Jon Snow to speak of her like that. But he didn’t, he accused her of boasting albeit falling short of saying so. From his perspective, Daenerys had to admit he was right. Just as she would’ve told anyone who dismissed her as a mere invader after all she lived through to get here, he dismissed her as just that based on all they’ve fought through and suffered.

She dropped herself in the chair he sat in, still warm from his presence. She took the cup he drank from into her hands, looking at it lengthily as if it’d provide her with the answers she sought for questions she wasn’t even certain of yet.

“Your Grace?” She heard Missandei at the door.

“Come in.”

She did. “I see it didn’t go as planned Your Grace.” Daenerys smiled one of her casually crafted, forgiving smiles. “If you mean that he didn’t tear the dress off me and took me to bed, it’s safe to say that nothing was further from him. He... he is different.”

“In what way, your grace?” Missandei busied herself with clearing the table.

“It’s safe to say the king in the north doesn’t easily sway to such desires. I saw him look. He made no effort to see if he could do more.”

“So he is dutiful,” Missandei remarked, and Daenerys looked at her in surprise. That was the word that best to described Jon Snow. Dutiful. Full of duties.

“He is. He takes his kingship rather seriously.”

“So do you, Your Grace. Your queenship, I mean.”

It’s not the same, Dany heard that little voice of her own thoughts. It’s not the same, now you know it.

She stood and proceeded to the adjacent room, leisurely slamming the door open. She removed her dress, the clips from her hair.

“Do you need any help, your grace?” Missandei stood by the door.

She shook her head. The only thing she needed was to be alone. She climbed into bed, and for long laid awake watching the remnants of starlight dancing in the wind on the ceiling. She could swear the shadows they cast took a form - that of the face of Jon Snow.


	5. Dragonstone IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys (negative)

He’s sat in a chair by the fire, head in hands, fingers lost in his unruly curls for so long, he didn’t remember. The days have been long, boring. He tried to get his head around it all though, what little that happened carried more meaning that he dared to explore.

She asked for his advice. Not only did she agree to visit the caves with him - a sorry attempt to try and prove to her, he knew it all along - but she softened enough for a moment or two that Jon could actually see the person underneath the layers of facade she’s covered herself with. He saw wonder in those big violet eyes. He saw her beauty then, not the carefully crafted look about her, the dresses, the elaborate braids of silver hair, but her - the young woman barely older than him who stood in front of thousand years old history and looked upon it with awe in her eyes. In that moment, she was the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, and that terrified Jon. There’s no time for such foolishness, he’s told as much to Davos before. He was almost glad when she resolved to her usual demeanour. “I will fight for the north when you bend the knee,” she told him. At least it was out in the open. She tried to appeal to him, to make it look as if it was his own foolishness and pride to resist, she tried to appeal to his sense of duty by telling him that his people would accept her if their King does... how little she knew of his people, Jon thought then, as he turned and made his way out of the cave. He never truly expected it to affect her decision, and it didn’t. He promised himself to try, and he did. There wasn’t much more to do about it. About her. He’d never break his promise to Sansa, never. He knew he could never look into Sansa’s eyes again if he went home and told her that he gave away what they fought so hard for, even if his giving it away meant nothing. Taking the dragon queen to see those drawings however left him with something else. The realisation that a part of him admired her, the beauty, the strength and the innocence beneath that she’s allowed him a glimpse of, surely not consciously, but she did. That was truly terrifying. He didn’t want it, he wanted to forget it, he wanted to carry on with his plan never to see her as more than a tool. But now he knew, he couldn’t do that, and it made it so much harder to play this game.

He sighed. He wasn’t the green boy anymore. Once upon a time in a different cave, that’s where he left that boy. Leaning back on the chair he closed his eyes and after a long time, he allowed himself to remember. The curves of her body, her smell, her taste, her voice... but it wasn’t her voice that came to his mind now. The hair he remembered to curl around his fingers wasn’t hers. Before he could ponder on whose it was, it all faded into thick haze in front of him.

In truth his mind seemed to be a cloudy mess, the immense pressure he felt seemed to be forcing itself on his thoughts as if an outsider wanted to break in. It was terrifying him even more than his thoughts of the dragon queen. His thoughts shifted to perhaps explore it, to figure out what has so harshly attempted to invade the privacy of his own mind, his own mess. At least that was his, and now some force pressed him, called him, urged him to explore together. It wasn’t her. He felt a sort of itch deep inside him when he was around her, and he duly recognised it by now for what it was. Aye, if he found himself alone in that room behind the half-open door with her, perhaps he would explore her in a different manner, he knew he wanted to. On the other hand, as good as it was to realise what he perceived as his own shortcoming, this wasn’t to be. He told as much to Davos, he’s not some sellsword to strip upon order. He would like to think himself better than that. But the excitement of the proposition lingered, because what kind of a man would not consider his chances with the dragon queen?

So she’s asked for his advice. In front of those clever men, those schemers he only knew about from Sansa’s stories before, who were much better at the game than he could ever be. And she asked for HIS advice. He gave it, honestly. He couldn’t tell what it was worth, because shortly after that they watched Tyrion Lannister sail away ahead of ships carrying countless Dothraki and horses, and he’s seen from his window that she took off on the black dragon. She looked even tinier on the back of a dragon. Jon knew she flew to battle. Pray to the Gods for the poor souls who encountered that beast, he thought. Gods be good. He hoped he’ll never see his people standing against that beast. The thought made him tense to the limit of his muscles.

His hands brushed his hair back from his face once more as he stood. Davos left as soon as she flew off and told Jon to stay behind, and thus Jon was now alone. Davos said it was better, not to draw too much attention with the presence of a king. As if Jon had the presence of a king! But Jon knew not to doubt the old knight. The queen’s departure has also given him the opportunity to do what Davos bid him to earlier: speak to these former slaves, followers of the dragon queen. True, the dark skinned girl with the big hair was here, and the countless unsullied too. Varys lurked somewhere in the fort meaning Jon wasn’t to trust any underage servant with even a greeting, but apart from that, there was a certain freedom to be had. They agreed that this was the right time to prepare and to find out more. So Jon went and tried to find some of these soldiers who spoke the common tongue. There wasn’t much luck to be had with that, though. He’s found the girl, who gave him a look that could’ve stripped him bare like on his nameday, and thus reassured him of her queen’s opinion of him. She explained once more how the slaves chose to follow Daenerys. Former slaves. She’s led him to the leader of the unsullied. Jon shook his head at the thought of his name, Grey Worm. What a name. For an eunuch, for that’s what he was. He’s asked them both what they remembered of home, and the boy had no memory of his. He’s been introduced to some other unsullied, but honestly, the story was the same. A young babe taken from his mother, castrated and trained all his life. To know no fear, no boundaries. The girl said she was a translator. Not with those curves she wasn’t, Jon thought bitterly, but he didn’t want to ask. She told him of the Island of Naath instead, of her childhood there. She was young, way too young to have any more than fleeting memories, she didn’t remember her parents. That gripped at Jon’s heart. He could emphasise with that, for sure.

Jon wondered if he was right. He wondered if he should give more time to the dragon queen. A part of him wanted her to see, to come to an understanding and acceptance of the truth and her limitations. That part of him longed to help her and he wondered why. He assigned it to his foolish honourable heart. The other side of his view was far less considerate. He’s wasted enough time here. He’s not gotten closer to the dragons, and he had not sought to, albeit if he had the chance he’d take it. This side of him saw the queen for what she was, arrogant and self-righteous. She’d never understand, not unless he’s forced her to. In the great scheme of things, Jon was now willing to force her to. He was also willing to give her one more chance, but that was it. And he surely wasn’t willing to get near to the chamber behind the half-open door. Sansa asked him not to, and he gave his word, as if he did anything of the sort before and he needed to be asked. As if Sansa had the right to ask. Jon wondered now how she fared.

***

Sansa sat by the fire, her fingers working steadily. The soft white fabric has taken the shape of a shirt long ago, the third one she’s made, or was it the fourth one? How many shirts does a king even need?

She sighed. What was he doing in this very moment? Was he safe? Was he with the Dragon Queen? She’s put down her sewing and stared out the window. Snow was falling, as if to remind them all that they were alone in the world and winter was slowly swallowing them, now that their king was gone. Sansa missed Jon. So terribly that she was surprised at it herself. She missed him sitting by the fire in her solar, the silly jokes he’s made that were never funny, his raspy voice as he told her stories, of the freefolk, of the Nights Watch. How patient he was whenever he’s trained her atop the broken tower in how to make use of a sword, and how they sat together afterwards, he’d wrap his arm around her shoulders, and it’d be warm in his embrace, his breath on her cheek as he’d tell her she’ll get better at it. How he’d hold her hand to lead her down the broken stairs. She truly missed Jon by her side. There was no one in this world for her, no one until she found Jon. And then there was Jon, always there, steadfast and caring. But now he was gone. All the things she’d just brush off her shoulders seemed to weigh heavy on her now, because there was no Jon to share them with.

A knock interrupted her thoughts and the door opened, without her call, as if a reminder of the weight of her thoughts.

“You ought to wait until I say whether you are to come in here, Lord Baelish.” Her tone was icy cold, before she caught herself.

“I know, Lady Sansa.” Littlefinger was already in the room, the door closed behind him. A sudden sense of panic rushed through Sansa. If Jon was here...

“Your brother is away and I thought...”

“You thought that with Jon away you can just enter my chambers without permission?”

Littlefinger smiled one of those sneaky smiles. “No, Sansa. I’ve thought you’re alone and perhaps you’d like to talk to someone.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair. “About what?”

Littlefinger’s gaze dropped to the linen in her hands. “Another shirt? The king is very lucky to have a sister like you, Lady Sansa. I wonder if he was wearing one of your shirts when he met the Dragon Queen.”

“You wonder that, don’t you,” Sansa hissed. “I wonder if he succeeded at convincing her of a military alliance. I wonder when he returns, because his people need him in the North. I wonder how long until the dead are upon us and whether our supplies will last us through winter if we survive. You, Lord Baelish, wonder about the shirt Jon wore to meet Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Appearance, Lady Sansa, is everything.” Littlefinger seemed unphased by her words. “King Jon is a handsome man that is true, but not one to care for appearance. He went to meet a queen and it occurs to me, he’s better presented himself in his best attire. You see? Shirt. Cloak. He is lucky to have a sister to care of such things, while he takes care of much bigger issues, such as military alliances.”

Sansa sighed. Why was he so clever with words, twisting them until she’s felt utterly cornered and unable to respond?

“I saw you with your sister earlier.” He’s said. Sansa’s eyes lit up, no matter how she would’ve hoped to hide her feelings.

“She’s changed. We all have. But now she’s home and so is Bran. All of us who survived are back home. The pack survives, Lord Baelish.”

Ghost rose from his slumber in front of the fire and moved close to Sansa then. His sleepy head turned toward Littlefinger. Suddenly he growled, showing long teeth that could easily rip a throat apart.

“The king’s wolf,” Littlefinger said, taken aback.

Sansa smiled at seeing the man’s fear. “Jon tasked Ghost to be by my side and take care of me. You see Lord Baelish, I’m not alone. I am never alone.”

The man smiled, and bowed. Sansa didn’t look at him as he left.

***

“You’ve got to do better,” Bran said in that empty, emotionless voice of his.

“What do you mean she’s got to do better?!” Arya, growing ever more impatient with Bran’s riddles was demanding answers Sansa was also desperate to hear.

“She’s got to convince Littlefinger that he succeeded.”

“Why?” The girls asked at the same time, glancing at each other. Sansa pulled her cloak together on her chest. The winds were stronger in the godswood, much stronger than when she last sat here with Jon.

“Because if you don’t, he’ll play you. But if you do, you’ll play him.” Sansa sighed. It wasn’t much help, was it? What use do they have of a seeer such as Bran if they don’t get a proper sentence out of him?

“I know what to do,” Arya said, resolved to the matter at hand. “You and I pretend he’s succeeded, we stage a fight or two. You seek his advice, since that’s what he’s craving so much. He’s drooling all over you Sansa, if you’re subtle enough, he won’t suspect a thing.”

Sansa nodded, looking at Bran. He’s not said anything - it was as good an approval as they’d get from him.

She made to walk back to the keep but turned suddenly.

“Bran?” She asked hesitantly.

“I can see him,” Bran responded flatly, causing the chill to ran across Sansa’s spine once more.

“Who?” Arya asked. She sat now under the weirwood tree like Jon used to, and father before him, and cleaned her sword. Needle. From Jon.

“He’ll be home soon, Sansa. He is almost set to depart.”

“I swear Bran, you’ve never been particularly fun but this is annoying. Who?”

“Jon.” Sansa whispered, and the name silenced Arya, grabbing her attention.

“How do you know he’ll be home soon?” Arya asked after a long moment of silence.

“Because now he knows how to get what he wants.” Sansa pondered on the words. How to get what he wants. Then it struck her, her cheeks burning crimson as the understanding dawned on her. She turned and rushed to the keep, straight into her chamber, closing the door behind her so fast that even Ghost has had to hurry and sneak in beside her not to be left out. She leaned against the door frame, panting. Now he knows how to get what he wants. She felt a tear rolling down her cheek.

***

So this was Ser Jorah Mormont. Jon thought of his old lord commander, wise, white haired old bear, who lifted him up and made him his steward. ‘You want to lead one day? Then learn how to follow.’ Jon remembered his words, one of the last words he said to him before Jon asked to be allowed away with Qhorin Halfhand. He never would’ve thought that it will be the last time to see Mormont. He never would’ve thought he’ll have to kill the Halfhand either, but he was a foolish boy then. He could see that now.

Now he’s met the disgraced son of the Old Bear. What other surprises did Dragonstone have in store for him, he wondered. The son of his beloved Lord Commander looked so identical to him, was he as white haired as the Old Bear Jon could’ve mistaken him from a distance. Yet he was different. He cowered, that was Jon’s first thought. He was leaner, didn’t stand as straight, there was no such pride or stubbornness in him as he knew the Lord Commander to be. Yes, he seemed to have cowered. Jon didn’t like that. He saw in the man’s eyes what he perceived to be devotion, perhaps even the glimpse of an unrequited love for her. That amused him somewhat, albeit he was keen to just see. So Mormont loved her, yet on her he saw no sign of the same devotion. Sure she seemed to be glad enough to see the man. Something struck in Jon about her smile, while it seemed genuine enough, yet when she turned to introduce him her eyes shone brighter.

Jon touched a dragon. He couldn’t wait to tell Davos of the experience. He just stood there, finally having given in to explore this intrusion on his mind, for lack of better word to describe it, and it led him to that hill. He saw the dragons, from afar, one of green shades and another of silver. It was such an otherworldly experience as the green one suddenly lifted its head and looked straight toward Jon. And the most unbelievable of all, he felt it’s gaze on him, like a burst of energy in his mind, just a moment before it lifted its head as if it was a realisation that Jon stood there. Then Daenerys arrived atop her black dragon, and the green returned to whatever it occupied itself with while the black allowed Jon to pet it. The queen seemed surprised enough. She didn’t say anything, but Jon could see.

As she left with her disgraced knight and her Dothraki, Jon stood there some more, really just to get his head around his first dragon experience. His first two dragon experiences. As he stood there watching the waves, the same burst of energy hit him. He turned to look but couldn’t see them. They were gone, until he looked up and could see them high up in the sky. They could’ve been little birds much closer to the ground, and they seemed completely harmless to him now.

“Come to me,” Jon murmured, wondering if it was crazy. There was no one around, the queen was long gone and probably back in the fort by now. No soldiers wandered the hills just now, likely because of the close proximity of the dragons he thought. “Come to me.”

He watched as the dragon circled down from the sky. As he stood by the cliff side, it stopped in the air just in front of him, wings longer than the great hall in winterfell flapped and stirred winds around Jon causing his heavy cloak to take flight. It was the green one, again. His mind overflowed with the same energy just now, and he tried to make sense of it all, to find the dragon underneath it. He knew as much from Ghost, that somewhere in there he could connect. Perhaps not warg, but connect. “I am Jon. And you are... you must be Rhaegal. Of course, you are Rhaegal.”

The dragon came closer just then. Jon fought the urge to step back. Suddenly it shot up in the sky, only to return behind Jon, and it landed with such force that the earth shook beneath Jon’s feet. “You were named after my father,” Jon said, as he took off his glove once more and reached out his hand. He waited. The animal stepped closer, stretching its neck it reached Jon’s hand, it finally brushed its nozzle against his touch. “I never knew my father. I am glad to know you,” Jon said softly, honestly, and he could swear the dragon purred. He laughed aloud, as much in his relief as in wonder and excitement. The thought hit him with force once more, so hazy he couldn’t make sense of it. But he felt it. “We will meet again, Rhaegal,” he said. “We shall meet again and I hope to have more time with you. I hope I’ll learn to understand you better.” The dragon slowly lifted its wing and it seemed to Jon that it wrapped around him, not too close but just enough to make out the gesture. Rhaegal then turned and flew away.

“Take care of yourself, Rhaegal.” Jon said after him. He felt the warmth of a response, just as inaudible to him as everything else, but he knew the dragon understood him.

He made his way back to the fort with such haste, he was panting by the time he arrived in the small solar that connected his and Davos’ bedchambers. The old knight sat by the fire.

“I did it,” Jon rushed the words, “I called a dragon and it came to me.”

Davos sat up straight. “It didn’t try to hurt you?”

“No, no,” Jon shook his head, the smile of a boy who just opened his nameday present on his face. “It... I think it called me to him, for days. I went out and apart from the queen’s dragon that allowed me to pet it, I could call the green one. It came down from the sky and I swear it purred. It’s crazy, I swear Davos it was as if it tried to hold me. Or protect me, it lifted a wing and wrapped it around me.” Jon took a deep breath. “The green one she named after Rhaegar Targaryen. It was the green one that came to me.”

Davos stood, with a wide smile on his face. “I am sure if I tried this, I’d be a small pile of ash now,” he said. “There isn’t better proof you’d need. Do you think you could control it?”

“I can’t even understand it, Davos. It’s as if it spoke in a different language.”

“I am certain it uses a different language.” Davos laughed, and Jon turned to the table to pour himself a cup of wine.

“You don’t understand. Have you ever heard of wargs?” He asked his Hand. Turning back, he didn’t need to wait for an answer, Davos’ face betrayed a lack of sense in his question.

“Wargs can enter the minds of animals, and control them. Some can enter anything that moves and has a brain. I met some like that when I was with the freefolk.” Jon sat down in the chair next to Davos’ and the knight sat back next to him.

“Have you seen how I am with Ghost?” Davos nodded.

“I warg into Ghost. Not too often. I dream of it more, I need to focus quite hard to do it while I am awake. I’ve never tried with any other animal. But the dragon - I felt its presence in my head. I felt it respond. If only I could figure how to understand...”

“Perhaps she could tell you how it works,” Davos noted.

“And how should I ask her? Your grace I mean to steal away a dragon, could you advise me how?” Davos laughed one of his rare loud laughters.

“Just ask her how she does it.”

“There’s no time,” Jon looked out to the sky, awash with vivid shades of orange and violet as the sun slowly made its way beyond the sea, giving way to tiny spots of light, stars that already began to shine their dim light to be seen.

“There has to be. Perhaps one more day,” Davos said softly. “I know you’re eager to leave, but think like the king you are. You’d want to know what she’s done while she was away.”

Jon sighed. He was indeed eager to leave. Dragonstone may have been the seat of Rhaegar Targaryen once, but it had nothing for Jon. He was far away from home and even further from reaching Winterfell, and he couldn’t wait to ride through the gate, to hold Sansa in his arms and know she was safe. But as always, Davos was right, and Jon saw reason. One more day, what could it matter after all?

“All right, one more day then.”


	6. Dragonstone V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys (negative)

Jon rushed through the corridors, Varys ahead and Davos beside him, then across the throne room where a few weeks ago he’s laid eyes on Daenerys Targaryen for the first time. Jon wondered if the sudden demand for him and Davos meant their execution day was upon them, or worse, they were to be moved to the cells beneath the fort until the dead all but wiped out the kingdom Jon risked coming here for. To the left side of her throne was an entrance. That’s where the unsullied led them now. Jon glanced back at Davos and the knight nodded in understanding.

The room was wholly occupied by a table. Except it wasn’t a table at all. It was a map of Westeros, carved from the wood tabletop itself. Mountains and valleys, rivers and keeps stood on it, and figurines of banners representing armies. Jon’s eyes eagerly looked for Winterfell, noting with relief the lack of direwolfs standing. The less they knew the better.

Varys handed a scroll to him. Jon rolled it in his hands, looking at the seal. The direwolf was intact, yet some of its edges rough, Sansa wouldn’t send it like that. This seal has been broken, and resealed. Jon shot an angry look at Varys who only shrugged. Then Jon broke the seal.

He felt the room shrinking around him, the ground beneath his feet giving way. His heart pounded in his throat.

“I thought Arya was dead. I thought Bran was dead,” he said, more to himself than to any of those in the room, hoping that the words when spoken out loud would make him believe Sansa’s words on the scroll. Hoping his mind didn’t trail off to think it impossible, to think it a cruel game of Littlefinger’s, to not fill with dread for Sansa herself.

“I’m happy for you,” he’s heard the queen. Was she? Her face looked rather expressionless to him now, more impatient than anything else. What if the scroll wasn’t even Sansa’s, but a clever plot to get what they wanted from him? But it was Sansa’s beautiful handwriting, letters just as beautiful as she was. Oh how Jon longed for home, for Sansa. “You don’t seem happy.”

“If this is true, then Bran saw the Night King march towards Eastwatch. If they break through the wall...”

“The wall stood for thousands of years,” Varys offered his pointless wisdom and Jon couldn’t help rolling his eyes.

“Aye, and it was raised to keep them out of Westeros. Don’t you think, Lord Varys, that he’s perhaps, just perhaps figured how to break through in those thousands of years?” Jon threw the scroll on the table.

“I have to go home. I’m wasting my time here, I need to be with my people.”

“You said you don’t have the men,” Daenerys pointed out the only reason he came here in the first place, as much as she could tell.

“We’ll fight with what we have! Unless you care to join us.”

“And leave the country to Cersei? As soon as I march out, she marches in.” She looked stern, resolved.

“Aye, and so you’ll do exactly what I said you would, Your Grace!” Jon raised his voice so loud, Davos felt the need to step close and calm him with a hand on his shoulder. Tyrion, who was just about to speak when Jon’s outburst stopped him, sat back in his chair now, unimpressed.

“It’s not kingly to raise my voice, is it Lord Tyrion?” Jon asked, as Davos pulled a scroll form his pocket, handing to Jon who instead of taking it nodded toward Tyrion.

“You will not leave the country to Cersei. Fine. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come your grace,” Jon hissed. “Make no mistake, they shall come. When they finished with us, they and all our dead bodies shall come for the south, for you if you’re there, and even if you’re not, that accursed chair of swords you crave so much will be always out of your reach. Just pray they don’t learn how to swim or sail.”

Tyrion opened the scroll, shocked at its content.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked.

“It’s my sister’s freedom. And I expect you to sign it my lord without delay because I promise you, I hold no reservations against holding my sword to your neck, or using it. I want my sister to be free, if we don’t win this fight, I want her to die free. To die a Stark, not a Lannister.”

Jon saw the queen’s face soften at that. She nodded to Tyrion, who in turn took the scroll aside. Soon enough he presented it to Jon. He’s signed it.

“You must hate us now,” Tyrion said in a low voice, “but surely you understand...”

“I understand that I came here because of your letter. I came here because of a queen who prides herself as the champion of the people who can’t defend themselves,” Jon’s voice was cold, stern. He was not to beg them, that wasn’t his goal. He was to cower them. To cower her, as he’s seen little Lyanna Mormont cower lord’s and ladies alike. “I’ve put my trust in you, a stranger, because I knew that it was the best chance for my people, for all our people to survive. And I’ve asked you to trust in me, a stranger. You’ve made your choice long ago. Breaker of chains, you are.”

He turned and rushed out of the room, Davos behind him, scroll in his hand.

“Perhaps that was unwise, Jon,” Davos panted beside him.

He marched on silently to their door into the solar they called their own while here. He locked it from the inside.

“It wasn’t unwise, Davos,” he said softly, the change in his demeanour startling his Hand. “It was necessary. Let them boil over it. She’ll come around.”

“Or feed us to her dragons.”

“She won’t feed us to her dragons,” Jon said with the hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth, as he poured a cup of wine. He moved to sit in front of the fire and gestured Davos to join him.

“How can you be so certain, Jon? I’ve never seen you gamble like this before.”

“I am certain,” Jon stared in his cup, “because she wants me.”

Davos raises both his eyebrows at that.

“Aye, I told you Davos. I won’t be like the men before me. Now even his servant that big haired girl strip me with her eyes. She wants me, and because she does she’ll remember what I told her.”

“And what is that?”

“That if she wants me to trust her, she earns it just like everyone else.”

“Hmmm...” Davos looked lengthily into the fire. “Interesting concept.”

“Not at all if you think about it. The things we can’t have are the things we crave the most.”

Davos smiled, placing his hand on Jon’s.

“I told you, you are wise, Jon.”

“And shit with women.”

“Aye, that too. But it seems to me that if we ever get out of this mess with her armies and dragons without you bending the knee, it’ll be because of your plan.”

Jon nodded at that. They sat in silence then, watching the flames eat away at the wood, until a soft knock on the door interrupted. Davos stood to open it.

“Her grace wishes a word with his grace,” Missandei said and Davos raised an eyebrow.

“With his grace,” he repeated, turning to Jon who merely gave a nod.

“Of course,” Davos said opening wide the door and Daenerys stepped in. Davos bowed his head to her. “Your Grace, I’ll be waiting outside the door.” He said towards Jon then he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

“Why do you keep me here?” Jon asked immediately, his eyes fixed on the fire burning in the hearth. He wasn’t willing to let her lead this, best defence is offence he thought. He’ll offend, enough for her to never forget the lesson he’ll give her.

“To bend the knee.” Her voice was thin, only a remnant of her usual queenly demeanour. “You want to go home to your people, to your sister. Sisters, and brother. Bend the knee and you can leave.”

She hasn’t moved from the door.

“Then you may as well feed me to your dragons or burn me alive because I shall never bend the knee to you. Not now, not like this. Not ever.”Jon was surprised at his firmness, at his act. Perhaps this is how a true king behaved, he thought. Perhaps this is how those pompous lords in Kings Landing played this game. This was how they’ve hurt others, he flinched.

“Perhaps you shall do so quickly, if there’s any mercy in you. It makes an appealing option when compared to wasting away here knowing that everyone I hold dear shall die soon enough.”

Dany sighed. “Perhaps I shall burn the North instead, Jon Snow.”

Jon swallowed hard. They tried to outbid each other, he could see that, but it didn’t soften the blow of her threat. He laughed.

“Believe it or not, considering our chances against the dead many may come to think it the better option. Me included. But even so they would never kneel to a foreign invader again, not even to the iron throne. Not anymore. We’ve suffered enough, my people have bled enough, we won’t put our necks into shackles ever again. If we die, we die standing. YOUR GRACE.”

Daenerys walked over then to stand in front of him. To force him to see her. Yet he didn’t look at her, not even a glance spared for her presence.

“Your Hand told me it was unreasonable to ask you to support a stranger, yet the demand is the same, support the southern war of a stranger, ignore the threat to the north. Only a fool would agree to such terms. I am no fool, think what you may but all I see is a queen who clearly has no concern for my people, their homes, their families. You’d have me bend to your will and march them south to fight your wars while they lose everything, because of nothing more than a claim of birthright to rule over them. Making a better world sounds appealing as long as it fits into your plan, it seems.”

He stood and looked at her then, and Daenerys felt herself frozen by the hatred she saw behind those dark grey eyes.

“It was a mistake to come here.” He turned and walked to the window, his back to her.

“You know the things I’ve done. You know I’d be good to them,” Daenerys said, the shallowness of her words hitting her just as much as she’s meant them to sound convincing to Jon. He’s turned to face her though, that was a start.

“Why are you trying to convince me?” His voice was so much softer now, relief settled deep inside her heart.

“Because I’d be a good queen to your people. Our people. With your help...”

Jon shook his head.

“Tell me then,” he interrupted her, “how would you be good? How did you rule, what have you done for example to increase commerce, replace the income lost after your abolition of slavery? How did you narrow the gap between free men and former slaves, what income did slaves have, how did you ensure that they could support themselves?”

Daenerys stood frozen. She was looking for words, desperately trying to think of an answer that could appease him just a little, just enough to calm him down, to stop this animosity that lingered between them.

“My advisors dealt with it, that is why I trust them.”

Jon laughed. “So you don’t know.”

“I’ve introduced contracts for service. Former slaves like teachers could continue their good work with the children, for example.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get it do you? You’ve effectively allowed them teachers to sell themselves back into their former lives then.”

“It was for no longer than two years.”

Jon laughed, and Daenerys felt the urge to cry. She couldn’t recall herself this cornered ever before, when all she wanted was to go to him, to tell him it’s all right and they shall find a way, Tyrion has an idea, perhaps not the best but they could work it out...

“Aye so they sold themselves again and again. Though it makes no difference really. I see many of them did the same without even a contract.” Jon wondered when she’ll break. She looked like a little girl, her favourite toy taken from her. He pitied her, it was certainly brave of her to face him.

“Why are you so against me?” She’s asked, “is it because you’d lose your crown?”

He chuckled. “I don’t even have a crown. We northerners aren’t much for such formalities. We don’t care about gold crowns and iron chairs made of swords of our conquered enemies as a token of our power. We care about who feeds the homeless, how to make sure the granaries are full come winter, how to repair the roofs atop the houses of the poor, distribute firewood to keep their hearth warm. My people care about who leads them to fight for what is theirs, only about who stands for them in their need.”

“Is that why they elected a bastard to be their king?”

Jon didn’t flinch. The blow was low, but he was past beyond it a long time ago.

“Your Hand is most interesting, his memory is quite detailed. Did he ever tell you his first advice to me? Never forget who you are, because the world will not. Wear it like armour and it can never be used against you.”

Daenerys sighed, as she dropped herself into the chair he sat in earlier. She’s ran out of arguments by now, she was sinking lower and lower and she could see. She saw how she could never win this argument.

“Who knows what made them do it, choose me as their king. I’ve never asked for it. They should’ve chosen Sansa, she’s the one spending every waking hour in orphanages and counting grain stock and arranging rations and sitting in sewing groups clothing the poor for winter. While you surround yourself with an army of slaves in all but name who never had a glimpse of free will. I’ve spoken to them. You freed them because it was the only way for you to gain an army, because you didn’t have the means to buy them. Then you freed some more, and they threw off their shackles of cruelty. But when ever did they have free will? They chose the only option they knew, to serve. How many went out into the world and made something of their free will? How many chose anything else but to follow you? It’s just a different kind of slavery, the slavery of the mind being stuck in what it’s always known. Now they fight for you in a foreign land, in a war that should’ve never been made their own.”

“And what have you done?!” Daenerys bursted out in an anger of defence. Her eyes filled with the tears she so desperately tried to hold back. She wasn’t willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“What have I done?!” Jon raised his voice to match her own, before he took a deep breath.

“I fought them. I’ve tried to save the living, that is what I’ve done! I went to Hardhome knowing full well that I was viewed as a traitor for doing so, and I tried to save them. When we were set upon I fought them, as long as I could so as many as possible could escape. Women and children, little children! I saw their rotting corpses running towards us to kill us all! And when we could do no more and I took the last boat I saw him. I saw the Night King raise his arms, and all the dead rose with it. All those people I tried to save and failed, they all rose upon him lifting his arms. That is what I’ve done, I’ve fought, and I’ve lost. Now all those I’ve lost march upon the wall and if I fail again, that same fate is what will come for all my people.”

She stood. Her chin held high, her face emotionless apart from a certain determination as she held his gaze for a moment, before she stormed out of the room.

Jon sighed and emptied his cup while Davos returned.

“What was that about?” He asked and Jon shrugged. “She wanted a talk. I’m certain she got more than what she bargained for.” He turned again to face the window and the sea beneath, albeit the sun was setting low and he could barely see more than reflections of the lights of stars dancing on the water.

“What did you tell her?”

“That this is not Essos, I suppose.” He went to the table and filled his cup, then emptied it again. He craved the numbness of drunkenness, but Davos took the cup from his hand now.

“I need you sharp tonight. What did you tell her?”

“I reminded her that we have free will. That she freed people who never had a choice and they cling to her. Because she makes their choices for them, follow her blindly as if the collar was still around their neck.” Jon shrugged. “Though I suppose it is much more comfortable for them now. I should’ve given her that.”

Davos smiled. “Your understanding of things is improving. I told you, you’ll figure it out.”

“I’ve also told her of Hardhome.”

Davos looked into those grey eyes now. “It never leaves you, does it?”

Jon shook his head. “No, it does not. If I don’t have nightmares of ‘traitor’ as my gravestone and knives in my heart, then I dream of him raising his arms and they all rise, every time.”

Davos put his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Jon, a truly good man. But you’re only one man. You can’t carry the weight of the world. Even you can’t take on that much.”


	7. Eastwatch I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys (one sided)

Sansa sat for long in silence behind the high table, alone in the hall with only Ghost keeping her company as his fur warmed her feet, while she kept staring at the mark on the floorboards. The servants did what they could to scrub it up, but it was there, clearly visible as the reminder it was ought to become. ‘It’s funny really’, she thought, ‘how little becomes of a man in his final moments.’ Her thoughts travelled back to that day standing in front of the great sept of Baelor. “Bring me his head!” Joffrey shouted with a grin on his face. Sansa remembered father. He was silent. He prayed, she still remembered how his lips moved silently as he offered his soul to the gods. Father was brave, and true. He died brave, though whether true, Sansa couldn’t tell. In the end, he’s lied to save them, to save her. She’s begged for that lie and he’s done it, forsaken his integrity and honour and lied what ever he’s been told to lie, hoping it’ll keep them safe. That is how Sansa learned what a Lannister equaled. A monster.

Joffrey died clutching at his throat as bile bubbled from his mouth, his eyes bleeding, his nose running, his face distorted and his skin turned blue. A befitting death for the monster who wanted father’s head brought to him, despite everything father said that day, despite how father gave them everything they asked of him. Sansa never doubted the justice of the monster’s death, in truth, she was glad to have seen. Those moments gave her more relief, more justice than years of tormenting Joffrey could’ve. Seeing his begging eyes as his mother held him, how he cowered one last time filled Sansa with joy albeit she’d never admit it. Joffrey was a true coward and he died true to his nature just like father died true to his. A wailing piece of shit as Jon would’ve called Joffrey. A Lannister, a monster.

Just like Littlefinger, albeit he was a different monster altogether. He was no Lannister, he had no blood ties urging him to become what he became as if family tradition. Sansa wondered if she’d ever learn the extent of how far Littlefinger’s lies went in destroying families, alliances and kingdoms. Chaos is a ladder, Bran said, but it sounded more like something Littlefinger would’ve said. In the end, he was a coward too. Strip away whatever power he amassed, and all he could do is fall on his knees and beg her. He had the audacity to beg her. Now he was nothing more but a pile of ash somewhere, and a blood stain on the floorboards of the hall. The pack survives.

She’s heard the wheels of Bran’s chair before she could see him, pushed by Master Wolkan. She nodded in greeting toward the strange creature that was left of her brother.

“I am glad you stayed,” Brian said in his usual monotone voice, waving away the master. “We have a visitor.”

“Who?”

“A black lizard.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, for a moment wondering what kind of new riddle Bran could’ve come up with. Then she remembered, her hand on her mouth as if she could stop the gasp at the realisation.

“Howland Reed,” Sansa whispered, and Bran looked toward the main entrance of the hall.

“He brings a present.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair, watching her brother. He knew, of course he did. There was little Bran didn’t know these days.

“I’ve not sent for him, perhaps Jon...” Sansa begun, only to be interrupted by Bran. “No, I did. It was time.”

The heavy oak doors opened, as the guards allowed in an aging, skinny and somewhat frail man, with piercing blue eyes and short, pale hair, on his back a worn saddle bag, and in his hand a long package wrapped in leather and strings. The man came close, and bowed deep as he stopped in front of the high table.

“I came for the king, I mean to speak to him, my lady,” he said, in a voice somewhat alien to Sansa’s ears.

“The king is not here.”

The man merely nodded, his eyes settling on Bran. One could cut the air as silence dawned on the hall.

“I know you,” The man said finally, and Sansa’s surprised gaze followed his to her brother. Bran had a certain smirk on his face.

“So it is you whom I conversed with this past months,” the man added, and Bran smiled.

“My Lord Reed,” Sansa stood. “I shall have a room prepared and bath drawn for you. Your daughter Meera is still among us I believe, we shall advise her of your arrival. As for the king...”

“She knows,” Bran interrupted her again and Sansa rolled her eyes.

Howland Reed’s face portrayed a sense of relief, as he walked to the high table.

“This,” he’s put the leather wrapped package on the table, “is for Jon Snow. And so is this,” he took his saddle bag, and a leather pouch from it, and laid it beside the leather wrapped package.

“What is it?” Sansa asked curiously.

“It is for the king,” Lord Reed repeated.

“But what is it?”

Bran looked up at her then. “Jon’s inheritance.”

Sansa’s expression must’ve given in to the annoyance she felt as she turned to Bran, because Howland Reed took a step back from the table. “Forgive me my lady, I mean to explain to the king in person.”

“You shall do more than that, Lord Reed,” Sansa said firmly, her eyes settling on old Howland Reed. “You shall remain with us and if needs be, explain it to the realm.”

Howland Reed smiled at her then, genuinely. It was clearly what he wanted to hear.

***

Darkness. Steps and more steps. Damp walls and sounds of steady water drops. Flickers of light from their torches dancing on black stone and dragonglass walls, as the men moved swiftly, silently. More steps down, broken and narrow. One has to be careful not to break a leg or a neck here. One has to walk here sober, not after two flasks of wine. More corridors, lined by black stone cells. Starlight. Sand and the sounds of waves. Men loading baskets in dingies, grey direwolves on their chest. More baskets, and crates, filled with black stones shining softly in the pale starlight. Time to go home. Time to be free again.

***

“Your Grace...” Missandei’s voice was soft, yet firm. “Your Grace.”

Daenerys sat up, her mind registering the first lights of the morning. It was early, unusually early.

“Your Grace.” Missandei stood in front of her bed, her face betraying a sense of shock, and shame.

“Your Grace, forgive me... they are gone.”

Daenerys looked up at that. “Who?”

“King Jon, Ser Davos. Their men. All gone, Your Grace.”

She jumped from the bed, frozen in motion for a moment to steady herself after the sudden rush of blood into her head, as the girl moved swiftly to hand her a shift, and one of those woolen long dresses she favoured against the cold when none else saw. She didn’t care, she took it, dragged it on herself, and Missandei tied the strings on her back.

“How?” Daenerys asked finally, slowly starting to make sense of the news.

“We do not know, your grace. They are gone. They left... something. In the solar.”

“What?”

“A large wooden chest Your Grace, and a black dagger. And this,” she handed Daenerys the note.

‘Fire or dragonglass.’

Daenerys rushed out of her chamber and through the corridors, straight into the solar where just last night she so bitterly argued with Jon Snow.

A dozen unsullied stood encircling what seemed to be an old wooden travelling crate. Varys, Tyrion and Ser Jorah stood back as Grey Worm walked around it.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked impatiently.

Grey worm didn’t answer, none of them knew what it was. He handed the dagger to his queen instead. It was a rough piece of carved dragonglass, it’s handle made of old wood carved a long time ago, she could tell. Fire or dragonglass.

“Open it,” she instructed.

“Your Grace, perhaps we ought to...” Tyrion began, only to be cut off.

“I said, open it!” She hissed.

Two unsullied unbuckled the two sides of the crate. Grey Worm kicked off the lid. There seemed to be nothing in it but a pile of old, moth eaten blankets. A funny joke, Daenerys thought as she walked to the window. There was no ship with direwolf sails in the bay. They were truly gone.

Varys came close and sat down by the table next to her, followed by Tyrion, watching as she held up the worn dragonglass dagger in her hand.

“You’ve let them leave,” she said, her tone cold as ice. “We’ve had the king who rules half of Westeros and you’ve let him slip through our fingers.”

“He wasn’t going to bend the knee,” Tyrion reasoned.

“No, he wasn’t. But I wanted him here.”

“Your Grace,” Ser Jorah stepped beside her. “Northerners are stubbborn people. They trust only those who earn their trust. They don’t take lightly to southern rulers, never did.”

Daenerys smirked. “Thank you Ser Jorah, but it’s too little too late. Jon Snow told me this much three times over before...”

The sound was unlike anything they’ve heard before, mixed with the desperate cry of an unsullied soldier.

That thing... that thing was on his back, ripping at his throat with its teeth, screaming. And it’s eyes... Gods, it’s eyes were blue like ice on a frozen river, shining. It’s flesh rotten, it’s clothing torn and it’s face distorted yet Daenerys saw it was a mere boy. The soldier fell, blood squirting all over the walls, the ceiling, even her dress. That thing bit his throat open, Daenerys registered in dread.

Ser Jorah draw his sword and stepped in front of them, the unsullied trying to encircle the creature. It hesitated, looking at them one by one until it found an opening between two unsullied and launched at Missandei. Daenerys looked down at her hand, visibly shaking, gripping at the old wooden handle. She thought to give it, but couldn’t let it go, her heart pumping so fast she could barely make out the sounds in the room apart from her own heartbeats.

A scream, and another soldier fell as a third impaled the dead boy, only to have it pull on the lance, and it grabbed the soldiers head in its two rotten hands, thumbs crushing eyeballs.

“Fire!” Tyrion shouted. Daenerys barely registered what he meant, as he watched Jorah and some others grab the torches from their sockets on the walls. One of them threw his torch at the boy and it shrieked once more, the sound deafening Daenerys, shaking her, carving itself in her mind forever.

Then it fell. It burned. Their torment was over.

She looked around. All their gazes loaded with sheer fear as they all watched the thing burn. It was a boy, Daenerys thought. Gods, Jon Snow, it was only a boy.

She stood and rushed out of the room, tears of rage flowing freely on her cheeks.

***

“You can’t!” Tyrion rushed, ran, trying to keep up with her. “The most important person in the world can’t fly off to the most dangerous place in the world! If you die, we’re all lost! Everyone, everything!”

She was already climbing atop Drogon but she turned.

“Then what would you have me do? I sat here for two days and you offered me nothing else to do, none of you advised me anything better to do.”

“Nothing! Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do.”

She thought for a second, her eyes settled on her Hand. How many times did he tell her, these were just stories? How many times did he tell her that he couldn’t doubt an honest man like Jon Snow, yet he couldn’t believe what Jon Snow told them? How many times did Varys and Tyrion urge her to wait, Jon Snow will break, Jon Snow will know her and see her for who she was, Jon Snow will bend the knee... how many times in these past two days did they tell her, it was only one boy, it was merely a trick...

“You told me to do nothing before. I’m not going to do nothing again.”

She turned and climbed atop Drogon. The three dragons moved as one, as they stepped off the cliff edge and took to the sky. She will not do nothing again.

***

Pale sunlight washed his face as Jon sat on a chest, watching as the men worked the sails. The winds were strong and steady throughout their journey, he’ll reach Eastwatch a day earlier at the least. In fact it could appear in sight any moment now, he thought, or hoped it would. His nausea didn’t bode well with being at sea. He cursed himself for the wine, he cursed Davos for allowing him to indulge, to forget. It was so hazy in his memory, their so-called escape. If it could even be called that.

“Feeling any better?” Davos’ voice was kind. The old knight stood beside Jon, his eyes watching him carefully as they often did these past two days.

“No.”

“Good,” Davos remarked with a cheeky smile. “You ought to learn from it, you know.”

“If I learned anything, it’s that you are a terrible drinking partner. You enable me.”

His Hand laughed aloud at that.

“As if you needed enabling, Your Grace. I took your cup, you took to the flask instead.”

“You should’ve stopped me.”

“Aye I should’ve,”

‘I should’ve stopped you when you stumbled and fell, I should’ve stopped you when you raged about how we’ll never defeat the dead, how you wanted to burn them all, when you told me how you’d fuck the dragon queen and I should’ve stopped you when you lamented how your sister would never ever forgive you for it. I should’ve stopped you when you cried with HER name on your lips, when you begged me to kill you.’

“But raising a hand to my king is not advisable, even to a Hand.”

Jon sighed. His pounding head didn’t seem to want to let him be.

“We don’t have enough dragonglass,” Davos remarked with a stern face.

“No we don’t, but we will.”

“You seem to be confident in your plan,” Davos remarked, glancing at Jon from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t respond. He just sat there, and tried to figure if he was confident, or cocky. His mind wasn’t willing to ponder on it just yet, or anything else for that matter.

It hit him, hard.

“We have company,” Jon said as he stood. Davos’ eyes watched him in bewilderment. But Jon recognised that familiar rush of energy, as he scanned the sealine towards Dragonstone. Nothing. He felt it, stronger now. He looked up to the sky and finally saw, and smiled.

Davos followed his gaze. Three figures, like birds flew past high above them. Except they weren’t birds. They were dragons.

***

The flight was cold and long, way too long, and she did wonder time and again if it was the right thing to do. The winds blew strong towards her destination, as she flew on, occasionally looking back at her other two children. It may have been cold, but deep inside her anger still burned hot like the pire that brought them to this world, desperation still clouded her mind. How many times did he tell her? Dead men were rising, women and children, little children, he told her. If you want our trust you have to earn it like everyone else, he told her. She failed. Oh how miserably she failed, because she listened to those she shouldn’t have and ignored the one she should’ve heard, she failed because she couldn’t trust a stranger. She swallowed hard as she finally caught sight of land ahead.

It was beautiful. Standing strong, rising tall from the stone beneath where land met the sea, it’s foundations washed by unruly, frothy waves. It shone in the pale sunlight as if it was made of hundreds of thousands of gems. Atop, tiny wooden structures lined up neatly, she could see them as far as she could see the wall.

And as she turned, before they could see her, whomever ‘they’ were, she saw snow covered land, whiteness that got lost to the sky in the distance. Tall pine trees stood hugging each other as if protecting themselves from the cold winds, their branches hanging heavy under piles of snow. She looked around and saw a land more beautiful than anything she ever imagined. Mountain peaks and valleys with waterfalls frozen in movement, long icicles where once water would’ve washed the stone now shining like countless crystals reflecting the sunlight. Fences and dozens of huts, scattered settlements barely visible under the snow, in the distance. There was no life. Not a bird, not a pray, no animal running on the hills or among the trees. The land was empty, abandoned, void of any soul.

Movement. A storm brew below in front of her. She looked around as her two riderless children flew closer to her now, as if tightening a formation, just as she flew past high above the storm. It was so contained, so unnatural. She passed it easily, as if was meant to cover only a patch of land. Soon enough it was nothing but a set of storm clouds behind her, strange anomalies above a strange land.

She flew on for a little longer before she decided to turn back east, to turn around. In front of her were now more hills. Broken huts beyond and the shores of the sea once more. A wooden fence lay shattered in the snow, with remnants of what would’ve been once a gate. Little tents or poles of what would’ve once been tents, their fabric torn in pieces dangling in the wind, and household items, jugs and cauldrons and the like, broken, scattered. She landed.

Slowly she climbed off Drogon as her other two children landed in front of her. She walked among the remains of the settlement, clearly abandoned in haste. Her eyes took in the sight. The freefolk must’ve lived here once, she thought. Jon Snow mentioned them to her, or was it Tyrion? Or Jorah? She couldn’t remember. She wished she asked more, that Jon offered more, she wanted to know their story, what were they like, was it true they ate their enemies? She reached the gate. Her eyes caught the sight of a large wooden structure, broken into pieces, it’s roof caved in. As she walked across the planks of the gate, her children around her, she felt it gripping at her heart. Arrows, countless arrows in the snow. Stains. She leaned down to touch.

Her eyes caught the sight of something black. She walked to it, laying in the snow half covered. Fur and fabric. Her shaking hand slowly reached to touch it as she crouched down. It was a cloak. She pulled at it and jumped. But it didn’t move. She cursed herself as she pulled at it harder. Black cloak with black fur. It must’ve been worn by a man of the Nights Watch before. She stood and looked around, her eyes settling on the pier to her left. The snow still showed marks, endless footprints here, the sea washed the tiny stones where it met the land. Pieces of cloth, and more arrows lay in the shallow water. The pier reached deep into the sea, some planks broken, as it stood lonely and abandoned. Just like everything else here. She turned and looked around.

“I saw the Night King raise his arms, and all the dead rose with it. All those people I tried to save and failed, they all rose upon him lifting his arms. That is what I’ve done, I’ve fought, and I’ve lost.” His voice was as clear in her head as if he stood right beside her. A knot formed in her throat, as she rushed back to Drogon. They had to leave. This place was no longer for the living.

The earth shook. She looked up and saw a storm approaching, fast, unnaturally fast. She ran. Rhaegal and Viserion took off one by one, as Drogon lowered his wing awaiting her. She ran faster, as the rambling noise grew louder, her heart pumping in her throat laden with fear as she felt the earth begin to shake under her feat. She could see her own ragged breathing in the air all of a sudden. She reached Drogon finally, quickly climbing atop as she looked up on the hill, in the direction of the noise.

Gods, dear gods... they were here. They ran off the cliff and fell dead. She sat atop Drogon, frozen with fear. Then they all stood as one, their ice blue eyes locked on her. She leaned close to Drogon, “Fly!” and Drogon took a step, then another, wings flapping gaining momentum in mere moments that seemed like hours to her. They ran after her with such speed, and she could see their rotten flesh dangling on their bones, their pale sunken faces emotionless beyond the ice cold of their shining eyes. She glanced ahead just as they took off and sighed with relief seeing Rhaegal and Viserion far ahead above the sea. Suddenly Drogon ducked and turned to side. A spear hushed past her head. “Fly!” she shouted once more, higher, she urged him in her thoughts as she watched the pier shrink underneath and disappear behind.

Drogon turned back at her will. She felt the safety of the sky, as Drogon lowered himself settling above the water, just high enough so that his wings merely touched the surface of the sea as they kept flapping, sending angry waves ahead toward the pier. They still kept running off the cliff, albeit there were so many now that they covered the ground, the mass of dead stood all along the shoreline. Their eyes, their cruel piercing blue eyes were all set on her.

‘You stood here, in that boat,’ she thought. ‘You stood here escaping with your life to fight another day, and he stood there on the pier. He raised his arms and all those you couldn’t save rose as one, as you watched...’ loud sob escaped her throat as Drogon turned around, to take her far away, her sobs the only sound that broke the silence of the sky.


	8. Eastwatch II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys (neutral)

“Our scouts found them south of the wall a few miles out. They said they were on their way here.” Tormund explained as Jon and Davos made their way down the narrow steps, not unlike those leading to the cells on Dragonstone, Jon thought to himself. They made their way to the cell Tormund pointed at.

Jon thought either his eyes, or his memory betrayed him.  
“You’re the Hound. I saw you once at Winterfell.” The man with half a face burned stared at the ceiling before he rose from the stone bed as if he was doing him a favour.  
“They wanted to go beyond the wall,” Tormund’s voice betrayed his opinion on the matter. Only a fool, or one with a death wish would want to go beyond the wall.

“We don’t want to go beyond the wall - we have to.” Jon listened intensely to the man who spoke, one eyed, wearing a leather patch to hide the socket where the other eye once would’ve joined the good one measuring him up. He was a southerner - Jon only needed a few words to hear to recognise that. And he was an educated one. He spoke with the careful affectation of a lord, not that roughness of the common folk.  
“Our Lord told us that a Great War is coming.”

“Your Lord...” Jon repeated.  
“The Lord of Light. The one true Lord who...”

“Don’t trust him, Jon,” Davos stepped beside him, his voice low, meant to be heard only by the king. “The Red Witch serves the Lord of Light. Don’t trust any of them.”

“Who are you?” Jon asked then.

“I am Ser Beric Dondarrion.” Beric said, “This is Thoros of Myr. And that... you know Clegane.”

“Aye. I also knew Micah, the butcher’s boy.”

“That goddamn boy keeps coming back to haunt me more than all the others combined,” Clegane said, his eyes holding Jon’s gaze. 

“Oh so there were other innocent boys ran down by you,” Jon felt eager to turn away, leave the three rotting in the cell. “No mistake you’re the Hound, Ser. Only a lapdog like you would murder innocent boys at the whim of a Lannister.”

He turned to Beric. “What do you know of the Great War?”

“I know it is coming,” Beric’s one eye seemed unnaturally calm to Jon as he admitted. “And I know you are to fight it. I recognise you.”

Thoros of Myr stood then and stepped beside Beric, standing right opposite Jon in the cell. 

“How would you recognise me, Ser,” Jon said bitterly, “When you have never seen me before.”

“You came back.” Thoros’ eyes kept measuring up Jon as he said it, as if to himself.

“Yes, you did,” Beric seconded Thoros’ words. “You came back with a reason. Thoros brought me back six times, and I always knew that when I see, I will recognise you. You are the Lord’s chosen.”

“Bollocks,” Davos hissed, his hand grabbing Jon’s arm as he turned towards his king. “Come on your grace, leave them be. They are fanatics of the the same god...”

“Here we all are,” Beric interrupted Davos, “at the edge of the world at the same moment, for the same reason.” Beric Dondarrion certainly was a man for big words, Jon thought to himself.

“Our reasons aren’t your reasons,” Davos said bitterly.

“It doesn’t matter what we think our reasons are.” Dondarrion stood to face Jon. “There’s a greater purpose at work, and we serve it together. Whether we know it or not. We may take the steps but the Lord of Light...”

“Oh for fucks sake!” Clegane’s interruption made Jon chuckle. “Shout your mouth. Are we coming with you or not?”

“Don’t you want to know who we are, what we’re doing?” Jon asked.

“Can’t be any worse than sitting in a freezing cell, waiting to die.” The odd man from Myr with a bun atop his head grumbled.

Jon turned to Davos. “He’s right, were all on the same side.” His voice soothing, he’s not forgotten that one time he’s seen Davos angry, truly angry. When he demanded the execution of the red witch.

“How could we be, Jon?”

“We’re all breathing.”

Tormund handed Jon the key then.

“We are not heading north,” Jon said. “If you mean to fight, you shouldn’t either. Death already rules north of the wall.”

“We know. Clegane saw them.” Jon flinched at Beric’s admission, looking at the Hound he so despised. 

“How?”

“In the fire,” Clegan began,

“Oh for fucks’ sake!” Jon turned to see Davos rushing away, taking the steps two at a time. His gaze fell back on the Hound as he nodded to continue.

“I saw a mountain, like an arrowhead. I saw the dead marching past, slowly, very slowly.”

Jon sighed as he opened the iron door of the cell.

“I’ll hear no more of fires and Lord of Light and the rest of your bullshit,” He said firmly. “If you mean to fight, come to Winterfell. But none of that bullshit.” He turned to Tormund, “They’re free men. If they wish to go beyond, let them go.” He turned back to Beric, “I advise against it. I rather would have breathing men fighting by my side then adding them to the army of the dead.” With that, he rushed after Davos.

Davos sat in a chair with a horn in his hand, when Jon entered the room. “It is rare to hear you curse like that, Ser Davos,” he said softly as he walked to the old knight and laid a hand on his shoulder. “We need every man we can get. The living has to bind together. I’ve set them free.” Davos only nodded, staring into the horn.

“No anger or revenge will bring her back, Davos, nothing will,” Jon whispered softly. “Nothing will bring back any of them.”

Horn sounded, lengthily as shouts filled the air. The horn sounded again. Then again. Jon felt his heart filling with dread.

“Beasts!” Tormund stopped at the door, leaning in, “The fuckers sent some flying beasts upon us!” He ran off, out of the keep, down the stairs to the courtyard facing the sea. Men gathered, some with spears and swords drawn. Jon followed hastily, Davos behind him. Suddenly he stopped. 

“It’s her,” he noted, “Daenerys.” Rough energy filled his mind, softer somewhat then he recalled, as he focused, walking down the steps and into the courtyard. 

“Blow the horn, only once,” Jon shouted. “Only once!” The men looked at him bewildered, as the dragons circled above, slowly coming lower from the sky.

The green dragon landed first, straight in front of Jon. He took off his glove and reached out, not because he particularly wished to disclose that he could, but he had to convince the men that this was no wight, no enemy. The silver landed, then the black, with her atop.

She made her way straight to Jon, her expression frozen, her skin pale from the cold.

“I’ve seen,’ she said, as Jon turned to her. She was shaking.

“You have to see it to know. Now I know.”

Jon merely nodded. There was nothing to say, words didn’t come as he registered the expression on her face, full of fear, but with a certain determination.

“Tormund, bring a cup of that mulled wine.” He said, his eyes never leaving her as he unbuckled his cloak. Taking a step closer, he wrapped it around her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have gone that far north,’ he said softly. 

“Isn’t that what you intended? Drive me off to see?” Her eyes were fierce, so fierce that Jon felt taken aback from the fire he perceived underneath the cold violet colour. “It was only a boy. You left behind a boy!”

Jon shot an angry look at Davos then.

“That was... unintentional,” Jon admitted and for a moment Daenerys saw in his eyes a flicker of pain.

“You knew that boy.”

His lips narrowed as he looked toward the dragons.

“His name was Olly,” he whispered. “I hanged him for mutiny.”

“A little boy, hanged for mutiny?!” She felt the urge to slap him, to hold him to account. In that moment it seemed to her that nothing was further from Jon Snow than honour, or care for his people.

He nodded, looking at her then, his eyes full of sorrow. She wanted to know, but as she swallowed hard she knew this wasn’t the time. One day, Jon Snow will have to explain himself, but it wasn’t today.

“We didn’t know which one it is,” he reasoned once more, apologetically.

“You have more?!” Daenerys raised her voice then, anger taking over her expression as Jon pulled together the coat in front of her, wrapping her in the warm furs.  
“You had that... thing, and you could’ve just as easily shown me. Yet you didn’t...” She paused and took a deep breath to calm herself, “You pretended you only have words and you asked me to trust your words. To trust you, Jon Snow.”

“This is perhaps not the right place...” Jon said lowly, looking around. “You’re addressing their king.” His last words were merely a whisper. A big, red bearded men stepped to her and handed her a cup full of steaming liquid. 

“Their king is dishonest.” She said, turning toward the man, thanking him with what Jon perceived an attempt at a smile as she took the cup. As Tormund stepped away, her eyes settled on Ser Davos. The old knight nodded to her, and she could see his unspoken apology in his eyes.

“Perhaps you’d be willing to come inside, your grace,’ Davos said, his arm already lifted to show her the way as she first sipped from the cup. She didn’t realise just how cold she felt, but the wine was warm, sweet with honey and cinnamon, and she drank eagerly now, watching with amusement as both Jon and Davos stared. It must’ve been hot, she thought as she finished and handed Davos the empty cup.

“I can’t, I must return to Dragonstone.” Her voice was calm now, the honey, the cinnamon and the wine soothed her, washed her anger away. “Preparations are in order.”

She once more turned to Jon, as her hands reached the buckle of the cloak. His gloved hand stopped hers just as she would’ve unclipped it. She looked up at him questioning, but he shook his head, his eyes soft on her as she’s never seen them before.

“It’s too cold here for a southern girl. It’ll keep you warm.” She nodded and turned toward Drogon. Jon watched s she walked away, the cloak so long it brushed the ground behind her. She reached the lowered wing of the dragon, and turned to face him.

“We will defeat the Night King, Jon Snow. And we will do it together.”  
‘And you’ll see what kind of queen I am, you liar.’ She added, only to herself as she climbed atop. As she settled, she felt him watching her. She wrapped the warm cloak around her, bundled it around her thighs neatly to be held in place.  
“Your grace,” she called once more after Jon, and their eyes met. “Never lie to me again.”

Jon flinched at that. Her words cut deep, perhaps even deeper than calling him dishonest. He watched as she took off, her other two following, Rhaegal not even glancing at him.  
‘Even the dragon believes me a liar.’ He thought as he watched them flying away. He stood motionless as Davos stepped beside him.

“Perhaps you need your cloak back,” Davos noted, but Jon shook his head. 

“The freefolk surely can spare some furs for me,’ he said, still looking at the sky, albeit they were long gone by now.

“The lady Sansa wont be pleased.”

Jon smiled at the old knight. “A fur cloak for an alliance. She won’t mind.”

***

Her Hand stood on the cliff, waiting, with Missandei and Ser Jorah. She could make out the worried, confused expression on their faces as she landed beside them, quickly making her way off the dragon, carefully holding the cloak about herself. It kept her warm through the flight, comfortably warm. It smelled like firewood mixed with wine, not a smell she could associate with Jon Snow, but it was pleasant, perhaps because of that.

“You met again with the King in the North,” Tyrion noted as she rushed past him towards the fort. They all turned to follow, yet Daenerys wasn’t in the mood to speak, to report. They made their way through the long stone path, through the entrance and the corridors, her three silent companions following her straight across the throne room and into the meeting chamber.

Her eyes registered Varys in the corner as they scanned the table, lions in the south, lions in the west. As she walked she grabbed the handful of figures that once represented flayed men on crosses, and placed them on the peninsula north of the wall.

“They are here.”

“Who?” Tyrion asked genuinely curious.

“The dead. They are here.” Her hand brushed across the carved word. Hardhome.  
She scanned with more attention the land, trying to recognise the landscape as much as she could from memory. Then she placed a few more just where The Gorge began its journey toward the sea. “And here.” She took in the sight.

“Jon Snow expects them here,” She said pointing at Eastwatch. She shook her head then. “This cannot be.”

“Your grace,” Tyrion came close, “You know this, how?”

“I saw them. I flew past them here,’ she pointed once more at the Forest surrounding the Gorge. “And they attacked me here. They couldn’t have reached me so soon, I didn’t spend so long...” She was thinking aloud, talking to herself, desperately trying to figure what kind of plan could lay beneath her discovery. “There are two armies.”

“They attacked you?!” Tyrion raised his voice then, and she turned to face him.

“Yes, Lord Tyrion, they attacked me. Exactly where Jon Snow fought them before and lost, they attacked me. Do not fret, I am standing in front of you am I not?”

She sat back in her chair, somewhat unconsciously pulling the cloak around her, feeling the need of its warmth despite the fire burning high in the hearth. She looked at them then, one by one, taking in their sight, as if she needed to be reminded that she was once more here, that she escaped the dead north of the wall.

“Send a raven to Kings Landing. I want a parley.” She said firmly.

“Your grace I doubt that while we have the advantage...” Varys began, but the look she shot at him silenced the Spider.

“I want a summit. The King in the North in attendance, and your sister,’ she turned to Tyrion. 

“Why?”

“To discuss a truce.” Her eyes settled on Tyrion. “And I want your sister’s armies North, alongside mine. You’re the clever diplomat Lord Tyrion, make it happen.”

“Why?” Her hand asked once more, one step closer to her.

“Because an army of dead men is marching toward my kingdom and I intend to defeat it.”

Tyrion sighed, shaking his head. The queen seemed utterly unreasonable to him, first she flew off then she returned in Jon Snow’s cloak, and suddenly she wanted to also fight his fight.

“I saw them, my Lord,” Daenerys said, softer this time. “Jon Snow told me once, there may be a hundred thousand. I saw countless at Hardhome. He told me if he can’t defeat them, half a million may join the army of the dead.”

“That is about the entire North,” Tyrion nodded. “The North isn’t near as populated as the south.”

“That may be, but Jon Snow is right. Once there is over half a million in the army of the dead, they’ll be impossible to defeat. Either they are defeated in the North...” She shivered and pulled the cloak closer around her. Tyrion looked somewhat sad, she realised then. Tyrion finally believed her, she hoped. She couldn’t be certain, it could’ve just as well been his disappointment at her intention to abandon the southern war, but it didn’t matter to her.

“Send a raven to Jon Snow. I need him to bring one of his wooden crates to the summit, as well,” she said and Tyrion looked up in shock.

“Yes, he has more. Make sure to remind him of my last words to him.” She stood and walked past the table. “In fact, make sure he knows of this,” she gestured toward the Haunted Forest on the table, “He has to know.” With that she left the room, Jon Snow’s fur lined cloak shushing behind her as it swept the stone floor.

***

“I thought you are done with the brooding,” Ser Davos said as he rode to Jon’s side. “Is the loss of a cloak affecting you so much then?”

Jon laughed silently. “No. Albeit you may be right. Sansa made that to me at Castle Black. She may not like my gifting it away.”

“It was a kind gesture.”

“Aye, she looked half frozen,” Jon’s response sounded flat, as if his mind were already elsewhere.

“What is it then,” Davos asked genuinely curious, “This time tomorrow you’ll be sitting by the fire in Winterfell, with your brother and your sisters. I thought you would be glad.”

“I am glad.”

“And yet, brooding like the boy who’s first love eloped with the prince.”

“What prince...” Jon’s voice trailed off.

“Jon,” Davos reached across to place his hand on the king’s. “You ought to speak.”

“There is nothing to say. I thought to get what I need to win this war I had to scheme my way to success, because that is how everyone does it, isn’t it. Yet it seems to me, if I clung to my honour a little longer and asked, I could’ve gotten further.”

Davos made a face of recognition as he pulled back his hand. “Remember what I told you when you said you failed?”

Jon thaught for a moment, looking at his Hand. “Go and fail again,’ he whispered.

“Aye, go and fail again,” Davos repeated the words assuringly. “Nobody is perfect and we all make mistakes. What we learn from them is what matters.”

“Then I learned nothing,” Jon resolved, and galloped to the front.


	9. Winterfell I.

He gently untied a string, then another, then a third. Slowly he unfolded the leather to one side, another layer of leather to the other side, and lifted the fur that covered... a sword. Edge of a sword. Valyrian steel.

Jon brushed aside the rest of the fur. A proper longsword emerged, almost as long as Ice had been. It was straight and strong, it’s fuller deep and refined. It’s guard adorned with small dragonheads at its ends, the grip round and reeded, well designed for a man’s grip. The pommel... Jon sighed. The pommel was a ruby, a stone larger than Jon has ever seen, shaped to mirror the edge of the sword.

“Do you know this sword?” Howland Reed’s voice dragged him back to the solar.

“Every boy knows this sword, Lord Reed,” Jon whispered in awe, looking at Bran. His little brother, so strange and impassionate, now stared at the blade with wide eyes. Even this lifeless shell of Bran couldn’t escape the magic of this sword.

“Blackfyre,” Jon murmured more to himself.

“It is marvellous to see,” Bran added, glancing at Jon, then Sansa. “The sword of Aegon the Conqueror.”

“And every Targaryen king, until Aegon IV gave it to his bastard Daemon,” Reed added.

“And thus House Blackfyre was born,” Sansa finished with a genuine smile on her face.

Jon gently lifted the sword, one hand at the grip, the other holding the blade.

“This sword was lost to the Blackfyres long ago,” he said. “I remember Maester Luwin’s teachings. Aegor, the Bittersteel refused to hand it back to House Blackfyre after their rebellion. Maester Luwin said, he took it to Essos whence he went to form the Golden Company.”

“What does that tell you, your grace?” Howland Reed asked Jon who turned towards the old man, intrigued.

“Something I should know?”

“There is an army of 20000 attached to this sword. And this shall help wield it,” he dropped the leather pouch on the table. Sansa swiftly opened the pouch and took from it a small leather wrapped and clasped book.

“Rhaegar Targaryen’s diary. One of many as I can tell but I could not tell you where to find the others, if they still exist. Perhaps Oldtown... but this is the one he left behind in the Tower of Joy,” Reed turned to Jon. “You’ve not known your father but he knew of you. He was full of joy and eager to welcome you. It’s all in his words, in that book. I took it when your mother died. Lord Eddard never knew, truly I didn’t even consider why I took it, I just did. Then you were already here in Winterfell, declared Ned’s bastard when I came to read it. I came to Ned, I begged him to tell you, perhaps once you’re old enough to understand... but it was never safe. King Robert hunted the Targaryen children across the sea, he never stopped. He would’ve hunted you if he knew. Ned made me swear never to tell you. He truly loved you, Jon. Aegon.”

“Just Jon, please” Jon responded with a sad expression.

Howland Reed nodded, and continued. “I figured if I live to the day to tell the truth, it’ll mean a rebellion. I looked for a way to perhaps sway the odds. I wanted to bring you something more useful than an old diary, albeit the words it contains prove beyond doubt that you are the Heir.”

Jon grabbed the grip of the sword then, and wielded it in the air. It was perfectly balanced, the grip as if made for him fitted into his hand like an extension of it.

“I am missing the point,” he said softly, putting down the sword. “This sword wasn’t in Targaryen possession for more than a century. It was lost.”

“It was never lost. The Golden Company passed it down from leader to leader.”

“And how did you come by it?”

“Valar Morghulis,” Howland Reed whispered.

“Valar Dohaeris.” Arya stood by the door, slight amusement on her face as they all turned to face her. “Nice sword.”

Jon’s eyes filled with tears at her sight.

“How did you sneak in here?” He asked.

“How did you survive a dagger through the heart?”

“I didn’t,” he smiled apologetically as if he admitted a great shortcoming of his. For a moment they stared at each other before Arya’s smile grew wide, and he opened his arms, and she jumped into his embrace just like she did on that day years ago when they said their goodbyes.

“You used to be taller.” Arya remarked with a grin after a long moment. Jon laughed as he glanced down her waist.

“You still have it.” Her eyes followed his, and she quickly drew the sword. “Needle,” she declared proudly as she handed it to Jon.

Jon looked it up before handing back, “have you used it?”

“Once or twice,” her smile disappeared and for a moment Jon saw the young woman she became. She glanced at the sword on the table.

“Go for it,” Jon said and she took the sword, swiftly, surprised at its weight.

“It’s heavier than I thought.”

“Aye, it’s not needle-size either.”

Howland Reed cleared his throat, and Arya put down the sword before she once more embraced Jon. Jon’s hand began to fiddle with her hair as he looked at the old man.

“Bittersteel declared when he formed the company that the leader of the golden company wields the sword,” Reed explained. “In other words, whomever wields the sword should lead the company, at least that is how I expect it to be.”

“This was what, a century ago?” Sansa asked, leaning back in her chair. “Back when they were Blackfyres. Now they are probably sellswords just like any other sellsword in Essos.”

“My lady, the Blackfyres are gone that is true, and that is why this sword has power if wielded by your cousin. I would not underestimate a man’s desire to return to his homeland.” Reeds voice was soft, but stern. He turned to Jon. “You need every man you can get, to fight the threat from beyond the wall.”

“The golden company is no longer for sale,” Bran’ voice grabbed their attention. “They’ve already chosen a side, bought and paid for.”

Reed nodded. “I’ve seen. But the sword is here.”

Sansa opened a drawer and took out a small scroll. He handed it to Jon.

“You say a man’s desire to return to his homeland is not to be dismissed,” she said. “Perhaps then this is of value.”

Jon read the scroll, then read it again.

“How many sellsword companies are exactly in Essos?” He asked bemused.

“There is only one other who’d perhaps fight beside you, without you handing away all your possessions to them as downpayment,” Reed said. “But they’d never fight for a Targaryen.”

“The company of the Rose”, Jon remarked holding up the scroll and Reed nodded.

“Wait, a Targaryen?” Arya raised an eyebrow. “Are we to fight for the dragon queen?”

Jon took a deep breath as he released Arya from his embrace, then he knelt in front of her.

“Do you love me?” He asked, his hands cupping her face.

“Of course I do, you’re my brother,” she glanced at Bran, “my favourite brother.”

“I am not.” Jon said softly.

“Of course you are, my favourite,” Arya smiled, her smile so innocent and loving in Jon’s eyes that it could shatter his heart into a thousand pieces in an instant. He looked at Sansa with silent begging.

“Arya, when I met Jon at Castle Black, we found some letters,” Sansa began to explain, and Jon’s hands fell to Arya’s side to take hers. “Letters to maester Aemon Targaryen who lived there. They explained that Jon is not exactly our brother.”

“What?” Arya looked back at Jon, “you’re not our family?”

“I am your family,” Jon whispered, “I am your cousin.”

Arya sighed of sudden relief and gave him a wide smile as if it was nothing, but Sansa continued. “Jon is the son of our aunt Lyanna.” She paused for a long moment, “and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Arya froze. Her gaze wandered between Jon and Sansa, settled on Bran before it returned to Jon. “He kidnapped and raped aunt Lyanna.”

“No child, he did not,” Reed took up the explanation, “he loved her. He’s set aside his wife to wed her, and he did. Your cousin... Jon was never a bastard. He’s the only living son of Rhaegar Targaryen. His trueborn son and heir.”

Arya stepped back, his eyes measuring Jon who fell back on his legs as he knelt in front of her. Long moments passed as all waited in silence for the sentence from Arya’s lips.

“You don’t look like a Targaryen.” Arya finally broke the heavy silence and Jon released the breath he didn’t realise he held in his lungs. “You look like... Jon. You look like a Stark.”

“My mother was a Stark,” Jon explained as if it needed explaining. Once more Arya came to him and he wrapped his arms around her. He dropped the scroll from his hand and Reed, with great difficulty and leaning on the edge of the table, leaned down to pick it up.

“The Company of the Rose,” he affirmed as he finished reading it. “When was this sent, my lady?”

“About half a moon ago,” Sansas eyes settled on Jon. “You weren’t here, they asked for the King in the North, in person.”

Jon stood then.

“In a fortnight. I shall ride to White Harbor tomorrow, perhaps it’s not too late for the audience they asked for.”

Howland Reed smiled.

They heard knocks on the door, and Sansa hastily wrapped the sword into the fur and leather it came with, just as the door opened.

“Forgive me your grace,” Maester Wolkan appeared in the doorway, “this just arrived. From kings landing, and this...”

Those in the room collectively let out a sigh of annoyance as Jon reached for the scroll Wolkan first held up in his chunky fingers, and broke the seal of the crowned lion. His eyes quickly scanned through the short message.

“Cersei wants a parley.”

“What?!” Sansa stood, “Jon you cannot go south!”

Arya’s face darkened as well, “Yes, I mean no. There is no way you’ll be going south.”

“Calm down little hens,” Jon grinned. “I cannot go south to parley and at the same time parley in White Harbor with that... whatever his name was. The Rose company man.”

He took the second scroll and broke the seal after a minute of studying the three headed dragon, while the maester dutifully bowed and closed the door behind himself as he left them. They all watched as he began reading it, only to be stunned when he burst out laughing.

“What is it?” Sansa asked.

“Tyrion Lannister,” Jon said amidst his laughter, “writes I should return to him his queen.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow and Jon began to read aloud.

“To the King in the North - ‘seems I’m really no longer just Lord Snow then’ - soon you shall receive an invitation to Kings Landing by my dear sister. Her grace the queen instructs me to advise you that she shall have a need of one wooden crate on this occasion. I would advise to return my queen instead from what ever place you hid my true queen, yet she requests the crate instead - rather with one of those things inside, if you please, she says you must have one to spare.

She advises me to remind you of her last words to you, and to advise you that she’s seen the army of the dead march past the source of The Gorge, and they attacked her as she landed at...” Jons voice died off as he continued to read, ‘...Hardhome, threw spears at her dragon before she flew back south. There are two armies. She could’ve died there, Jon. Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen.’

He looked at Sansa. “Fetch a map of the North, the real North” he said and she moved swiftly, looking amongst rolled up parchments for a little while before she picked one. She laid it out atop the bundle of leather and fur that hid the Targaryen sword.

They all watched as his fingers looked and found the source of The Gorge. He placed his other pointing finger at Hardhome.

“I’ve fought them here,” Jon said sternly, his finger tapping the map at the edge of the peninsula.

“I’ve seen them leaving Storrolds Point toward the south,” Bran added and Jon’s finger slowly travelled that way on the map.

“Meaning they would attempt a crossing of the wall at Eastwatch. Makes sense, it’s the edge of the wall, with a only small wooden fort that cannot be manned in high numbers. The harbor is abandoned and in disrepair, help is far away and so are the settlements to the south. They could get an army across before we know it, if they secure a way through.”

“You’ve sent Tormund to Eastwatch,” Sansa added.

“Aye, and he’s settled in. I’ve seen him myself before I rode home. But this...” Jons gaze trailed toward his other finger pointing at the Gorge just above where once Caster’s Keep stood. “The distance is about the same to the wall if they target the south. Caster won’t stop them, we’ve burned the keep. I bet his daughter wives now march among the dead.”

“Don’t tell Gilly,” Sansa whispered.

“Gilly?” Jon looked up surprised, “Sam’s here, too?”

Sansa responded with a wide smile. “Looks like all those who support you come to Winterfell, Jon.”

“He also has proof of about you,” Bran noted.

“How many know?” Sansa wondered aloud.

“The people in this room, Samwell Tarly and Gilly,” Bran answered dutifully.

“And Davos,” Jon added, nodding toward Sansa. “Eight.”

“That’s no longer a secret, Jon.” Sansa worried.

“None of them would ever tell,” Bran countered.

Jon made a mental note to find Sam, perhaps in the library, later. Something to look forward to. He stood straight, his hands leaving the map yet his gaze still taking it in.

“Two armies.” He said, “two attacks.” He looked at Bran. “He means to attack two towers. Icemark, the Nightfort, Deep Lake, Queensgate... Castle Black.” He recited them as his finger traced their position. “He won’t try against an unmanned tower, he doesn’t hunt deserted lands. He wants meat for his army. He’ll try against Castle Black.”

Sansa turned to Bran. “Isn’t this something you can see? What’s the point of you being this... three eyed raven if you don’t look?” Her voice was stern, even cold somewhat.

Bran sighed, before his eyes turned white. Jon looked on in amazement, while old Howland Reed let out a chuckle. To him, this was confirmation.

They waited for a short while in silence, Arya once more wrapping her arms around Jon’s waist, before Bran shook and returned to them as of awoken from a nightmare. Jon felt a flicker of worry for the boy.

“He’s with them at the Gorge,” Bran said. “He saw me.”

“He saw you?” Howland Reed was genuinely surprised.

“Yes, he knew I was looking,” Bran explained, “he rarely misses me. He scatters my ravens with a single glance.”

Arya rolled her eyes, looking around at them. “This is too much,” she whispered to herself. “An army of dead men are coming to kill us. My big brother is a Targaryen. My younger one wargs ravens and sees the past.” She dropped into a chair.

“We need to man the wall,” Jon said out loud the obvious, “a couple hundred wildlings and a couple hundred of the Nights Watch won’t hold a hundred thousand, not even on the Wall. We need well positioned armies to back them, the wall manned at the top with just as much as they have there now, at the least...”

He sighed. “I need those men at White Harbor, or wherever they are.”

“What about Kings Landing?” Howland Reed, now unofficially part of Jon’s council it seemed, questioned him, “why is there even a parley?”

“As much as I could tell from what I’ve learned on Dragonstone, Daenerys is unwilling to give up on the South - the fact that Tyrion wrote about Cersei’s invite confirms they initiated it. Daenerys has just won a battle at Blackwater Rush. Then she flew north - likely because I angered her into it. If I was her I’d seek a truce, and considering she’s asked for one of them, that is not the only thing she’s seeking. She’ll be after an alliance.”

“How do you know?” Arya stepped close, her hand unwillingly slipped into Jons.

“I know because that’s how I won her alliance.” He glanced at Sansa, “that, and the warmest cloak the North has ever seen.”

“Which means you’re needed in Kings Landing,” Howland Reed remarked.

“No,” Sansa was firm. “I’ll never agree to that.”

“I don’t need your permission, you know,” Jon said with a smirk, “but I wouldn’t go myself. I can’t leave the North, not in the face of this, not when we may have a chance at White Harbor to equal their armies. We mustn’t forget that they are enemies of the North, both of them.”

Sansa smiled a proud smile at him.

“I’ll ask Davos to go,” Jon said somewhat hesitantly, “I would never ask you.” His eyes settled on Sansa.

“I’d never go even if you begged me to,” Sansa replied softly, “as long as Cersei sits on the throne, I’ll not set my foot in Kings Landing if I can help it. I’ll ask Brienne to accompany Ser Davos.”

“If he agrees.”

“If she agrees.”


	10. Winterfell II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: slight Jonsa

Sansa slowly laid the book down on her lap. Her tears were flowing down her cheeks for a while now, she didn’t bother to wipe them away as she’s read, her only worry not to allow them to drop on the yellowed parchment pages of the little book, not to smudge a single letter.

The letters were well rounded, clearly by a hand that spent a lot of time holding a pen. The words… the words were beautiful, almost like poems, and some of them were truly meant to be. Like the one he wrote to his unborn son. Sansa sobbed remembering the words she’s read.

She didn’t hear the door open behind her as she stared into the fire, her thoughts with a man of silver hair and violet eyes she’s never seen or knew, now long gone from this world.

“Sansa, would you send a raven…” Jon stepped to her. His face sunk as he swiftly crouched in front of her chair, a thumb wiping off the tears on her left cheek.

“What is it, beautiful?” He asked, his voice full of worry.

“He loved you,” Sansa whispered glancing at the book in her hands, “You were but a babe growing in its mother’s belly and he loved you so much, Jon. He would’ve given the world to you, you were all he wanted in this life…”

Jon’s eyes settled on the book as he thought for a moment.

“Then he went and fought Lord Eddard, he went about allowing his mad father to burn Lord Rickard, to tie Lord Brandon with chains on his neck and have him strangle himself to death trying to save his father.” His voice was bitter, so bitter that they their edge cut into Sansa’s heart.

“No, Jon,” her hands left the book and cupped his face, gently lifting it to force him to look at her. “He wanted to stop it. He took aunt Lyanna to Dorne into safety and he left for Kings Landing. He meant to overthrow his father, Varys assured…”

“Varys,” Jon hissed repeating the name.

“Yes, I know…” Sansa nodded, “Rhaegar tried to work with what he’s had. He doesn’t tell much of what his plan was, but he writes to learn of grandfather’s fate just before he departed. He lamented how he’ll never be able to repay our family, for their loss, and for you…”

Jon shook his head, his eyes once more fixed on the little book.

“I’ve always thought Rhaegar Targaryen was an evil man,” Sansa whispered. “He was not. He was good. He would’ve been a good king. It would’ve been so different had Robert Baratheon not lie about aunt Lyanna and him… You would’ve been raised to be a king. You would’ve been prepared to fight the dead. He knew of them, Jon, he chose aunt Lyanna because of a prophecy.”

“So he didn’t really love her.”

“Not at first perhaps. He writes of his own surprise at how he grew to love her, he perceived that it was a sign that this was meant to be, that the prophecy was true. That you were the prince that was promised, whatever that means.”

Jon kept staring at the book for a while, laying in her lap looking quite ordinary, yet it held so much value, he began to understand. Slowly, tears filled his eyes.

“He wrote a poem to you,” Sansa whispered, “as if he knew that one day you’ll be able to read it, as if he knew he’ll never see you himself….”

“They stole my life from me.” Jon remarked in a thin, sad voice.

“They?”

“King Robert. And whomever else spread the lies about my parents… but King Robert killed my father, he forced Lord Eddard to lie to me, he…” Jon’s voice broke off as his head dropped into her lap. He sobbed, silently, for the first time he allowed it all to come to him. For so long he resisted, always brushing these matters to the side, always keeping them at a distance as if they were nothing more than facts that held no emotional value or meaning to him. As if they were not worth a single moment of thought.

Sansa gently brushed back his hair, worn lose so late in the night, her hand caressed his shoulders underneath the white linen shirt.

“Cry, Jon,” she whispered, “do not hold it back. You need to let it out, finally… it’s all right. It is all right.”

They were like this for a time, Sansa patiently waiting for him to calm, as he shed all those tears he’s held for the past year, and perhaps beyond. Every tear he didn’t cry whenever he was mocked, kicked, pushed aside for being a bastard, every tear that had its pair cried long ago by a little boy in front of the weirwood tree repeating the same words countless times: “Please, make them love me, make me a trueborn…. Make me a Stark.” Yet he wasn’t a Stark. He was a Targaryen. He was THE TARGARYEN HEIR.

He took a deep breath and lifted his head, wiping his face with an arm.

“Thank you, Sansa…” he whispered. His eyes were calm now, his mind resting from the troubles as if he came to an acceptance of it all, “Make sure you keep it safe,” he glanced at the book, “I may want to read it one day. But not today, not anytime soon. It’s too soon.”

“I know,” she leaned to kiss his forehead. “I know, and you should know that I am by your side, just as you were by mine.”

Jon stood, looking around in the room, trying to take it in to return into the present. His mind wasn’t willing.

“I wonder sometimes what it would’ve been like,” he said softly as he stepped to the sideboard and poured wine into a cup. He returned and dumped himself into the chair he spent so many nights in before, sitting by the fire with Sansa. “Had he lived, everything would’ve been so different. I would’ve grown up in the South.”

“You have the North in you, it is in your blood,” Sansa said. “I hope the boys would’ve convinced father still to keep the pups. We would’ve sent little Ghost to Kings Landing. We would’ve still loved you like a brother. Perhaps more so… I was so very cruel to you back then.”

“You were shaped by your mother, Sansa,” Jon said with a forgiving smile. “And she was shaped by the lies she’s been told. I can see that now. I do forgive, even if there is nothing to forgive.”

“I wonder what he would’ve done,” Jon said. “If he was so keen to make amends, I wonder if he would’ve asked father to be his Hand. They seem to think in the South that the way to reward one is to task them so gruesomely.”

Sansa chuckled. “Yes, and the way to make alliances is through marriage. Boys are to be the heirs, girls are dispensable to be sold for favour and fancy words.”

Jon glanced at her. “You sound so much like Arya, but I don’t blame you. You are right.”

“I think it would’ve been different, Jon. I think he would’ve done what he could to let father know he… that he regretted it.”

“So, he would’ve made father his Hand,” Jon remarked with a slight grin.

“And he would’ve done it much sooner than the Baratheon did.”

“He would’ve betrothed you to me, as well,” Jon watched her, as she burst out in a soft laughter and he laughed heartily with her.

“And you would’ve been my very own Aemon the Dragonknight. And we’d be sitting by the fire in Kings Landing now, you the Crown Prince and I your future consort, talking about… I don’t know what we’d be talking about!”

Jon laughed. “We’d have nothing in common to talk about. I’d be into my sword and armour and you’d be into your sewing and chivalrous stories. We’d find each other extremely boring.”

They laughed, until Sansa suddenly stopped. “No, Jon. You’d be preparing armies to march upon the North to defeat the dead, because you would know that is your destiny. And I’d be crying my eyes out for your safe return, just like I do now.”

Jon nodded, staring into the fire.

“My destiny…” He whispered after a moment of silence. “He seemed to single me out.”

“Who?”

“The Night King. When he walked onto the pier at Hardhome, his eyes were on me. Only me.”

“Perhaps there is truth to such prophecies,” Sansa remarked. “By now I could believe almost anything. Perhaps he knew you’ll come. That you’re alive. That you’re chosen. That he’ll have to defeat YOU.”

Jon looked upon her. “Do you believe that? I am chosen?”

Sansa’s smile was genuine and reassuring. “I do, Jon. You are chosen in more ways you could know.”

He sipped from his cup then, his gaze returning to the fire. They didn’t speak anymore, both of them lost in their thoughts, both of them trying to come to terms with reality, assured by the presence of the one who they trusted, fought beside and counted on, both growing stronger by the peace and calm their silence assured them of.

***

Jon looked around the yard, taking it in once more.

It was a far cry from Lord Eddard’s court, children running around, servants rushing about, the place lively, vivid, filled with murmurs and laughter. With peace. His courtyard was not filled with peace – it was filled with war. The clapping at steel from the smithy echoed around, half the yard was now taken over by their tents, breastplates and gauntlets and pauldrons in piles, women sewing leather that the young boys stretched onto the back of those roughly rushed breastplates. Soldiers, or would be soldiers grouped everywhere, only standing aside for yet more carts of all sizes wheeled in, on them barrels of pitch and of wheat, and crates. Some of them crates piled alongside baskets just beside the smithy. The poor man who ran the smithy already pulled him aside to confirm that he knew not what to do with them. He wasn’t more but a trainee boy, before the smithy got skinned alive for some trumped up charge by Ramsay, yet now he had to arm the North. He was way out of his depth, just like Jon.

The men also stepped aside to give way to their King as he walked toward the stables. They bowed deeply, some even hushed a blessing like that “Gods save you, Your Grace” he’s heard as he stopped in the middle, turning back at Sansa. She stood on the rampart, watching them. Jon nodded to her the same time she did, and he settled with the knowledge that he saw confidence on her face. She was every bit the Lady of Winterfell, and none of the girl who had him cry in her lap the night before.

Jon’s gaze followed hers, to see Davos and Brienne grouping on the side. He walked to them and nodded in greeting.

“Your grace,” Brienne bowed deeply like the others. “If you excuse me…” She made to walk away but Jon’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Wait,” he said firmly, “Your sword, is it valyrian steel?”

She nodded, as Jon’s gaze settled on the lion pommel at her side. “Your grace…” Brienne looked embarrassed for a moment, “It is your sword in truth. It was forged…”

“By melting Ice?” Jon raised an eyebrow at the sudden realisation, and Brienne nodded somewhat sorrowful for him. “It is yours still, Lady Brienne. You’ve put it to good use before, that steal was meant to defend the Starks. It does with you.”

Brienne’s smile was rare, but wen she gave it, it was with meaning. She smiled widely for Jon in that moment. “And it shall continue to do so, Your grace. Albeit if I am in Kings Landing…”

“You are still defending my sister. You are defending her by bringing thousands of men to the North to fight for her survival. For all our survival.”

Brienne nodded and walked away.

“I watched them, you know.” Davos’ eyes settled on Jon.

“Who?”

“The men in the yard,” Davos explained. “They love you. Hell, they admire you like some god.”

Jon chuckled. “I am no God. Merely a pretender.”

“For now.”

Jon sighed. He didn’t mean to get further with this discussion, he didn’t mean to explain how his inheritance still sat too uneasy with him to accept it.

“I know you aren’t happy with those Fire God worshippers in Winterfell,” Jon said.

“My happiness matters little in it,” Davos explained, no sign of anger on his face, “It is true nothing will bring back the dead. What’s done is done. You are right, we ought to bind together now.”

Jon took a deep breath, thinking, how he truly loved this old man.

“I wish you good fortune, Ser Davos,” he said softly, as his hands settled on the old knight’s shoulders.

“If you mean to hold me now…” Davos began but Jon pulled him into the hug, and his words turned to soft laughter.

“Aye I meant to,” Jon smiled at him as they parted. “Take care that you return, my friend. I have need for you, I truly do.”

Davos nodded in acceptance of his words like an order. His gaze once more meeting the king’s, his heart filled with that now familiar fatherly love for the young man behind the title. He needed him, Davos thought, truly, for this world was cruel, and Jon Snow, or even Aegon Targaryen was a good man, that much Davos knew more certain than anything else. And this world was not kind to good men. Perhaps that was why there was so few of them left.

“Oh you fucker, leave it!” They heard, and both turned toward the source of the curse.

“My journey will be… eventful, Davos remarked watching the Hound roughly push aside the stable boy, taking over the preparation of his horse.

“Leave him be.”

Arya stepped out from behind the Hound’s horse. The man’s eyes settled on her with nothing more than mere recognition.

“I heard you were here,” he uttered the words. “You left me to die.”

“First I robbed you,” she remarked the correction, her eyes for a moment registering Jon watching from a few steps away. The Hound took a few steps closer to Arya and stood in front of her. Jon’s hand unconsciously went for the pommel of his sword, but Arya shook her head to him. Her eyes met the Hound’s gaze.

They measured each other up in a long moment before the Hound smirked. “Guess that’s why you’re still alive.” He turned and mounted the horse.

“Clegane,” Arya called out and he turned toward the girl. “Don’t you dare betraying my brother.”

He chuckled. “Would I dare defying you, little bitch.” He didn’t look at her, rather opting to watch as Davos mounted his horse. Men jumped atop a cart to lead it out the gate, besides which Brienne already mounted ordered some more to mount their horse. They were to depart.

Davos once more turned to Jon. “Good luck to you as well, your grace,” he smiled. “If there are Gods somewhere, pray they are kind enough to grant that both of us return with an army.”

“Or two, or three,” Jon remarked, and Davos chuckled.

“I’ll do what I can,” Davos confirmed but Jon leaned closer.

“Do not forget.”

“I would never, your grace,” Davos nodded and rode out the gate, the crate, the men led by Brienne, and finally, the Hound following him.


	11. White Harbor I.

“I hoped you to be more careful.”

Edric shuffled in his seat, before he grabbed his goblet and drank the wine eagerly. “We are careful,” he said. “You sent for me, Lord Wyman, it is too late to lament that decision.”

“I was hoping you not to draw attention to my family,” Wyman brushed off a drop of the sauce from his rather round belly as he sat back on his chair. “Think what you may. I am not in the king’s favour.”

“Have you not given the gifts we helped you procure?”

“Aye, and Lady Stark was truly delighted,” Wyman Manderly nodded. “But the king… he’s different. I doubt there is anything you can give to buy him off.”

“And we mean to do nothing of the sort.”

“What will you do?” Wyman wasn’t comforted at all.

“I’ll see what he’s made of.”

***

“How many?” Daenerys asked impatiently.

“Thirty-six, you grace. By the time we depart we may have as much as forty, perhaps forty-two,” Tyrion glanced at Varys. The Spider was disturbingly silent these past weeks and Tyrion wondered if it was only him that noticed. All Varys did was sitting on these meetings, as he recounted progress in the mines, headcounts and more progress of the village women sewing fur coats and gloves. It was crazy, he kept telling himself. They were to take Kings Landing. Now they headed to the wall.

“Any news from…” Daenerys’ voice trailed off.

“Not since you last asked this morning, your grace” Varys spoke. Varys could speak! Tyrion would’ve been amused had he not seen the icy look the Queen shot at the Spider.

“Keep up the good work, Lord Tyrion,” she said as she stood, “make sure you prepare transport as well. Forty-two crates of dragonglass can’t be easy to transport on winter roads.” She rushed out of the room, and Tyrion knew, she did so to avoid her anger getting the better of her. She knew.

“You ought to be more careful, perhaps,” He turned to Varys. “You are downright offending our Queen.”

“Do I? I’ve not meant to,” Varys shrugged. “If I offended I will apologise.”

“See that you do. I would rather avoid watching you burn into a pile of ash.”

Varys gave him one of those looks that were meant to show complete disinterest, yet Tyrion knew after years around Varys, he’s been hiding something.

“You’re up to something,” He said.

“Actually, I am not,” Varys shook his head. “That is the point. Our queen decided to abandon her cause and fight an honourable war to save the people of the North and perhaps the whole of Westeros. What more could I ask for?”

“You’ve always been the champion of the realm and the people, have you not…” Tyrion knew there was more to this, he just felt it in his bones like an uncurable itch that never soothed. “I’ll not have you scheming behind her back, my friend. Not even you.”

“I promise you my friend,” Varys leaned on the table, “I am merely watching. I am watching and wondering.”

“Wondering?”

“Yes, wondering,” Varys gave a slight smile. “Our queen allied herself to the King in the North. Yet there is no news that he does the same, not a word.”

“You think we are being played.”

“Not necessarily. Do you see Jon Snow as a player?”

Tyrion chuckled at that, for a moment remembering the angry, timid boy he’s met on the way to Castle Black. “No, he’s too simple for that. Too honourable, like his father, who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“It is rather interesting to call Ned Stark honourable in the same sentence as his bastard son.”

Tyrion sighed, and dragged a chair next to where Varys sat.

“Tell me, then,” he leaned closer, “All of it, everything you know.”

***

Jon sat at the high table beside Lord Wyman Manderly, listening to yet another complaint about the lack of grain. Sansa has ordered grain stock to be sent to Winterfell, the granaries of White Harbour were no longer equipped for winter and the town lived on strict rations. To Manderly’s credit, he resolved the matters with some considerable skill as he explained how he’s discussed with the king, how the stock shall be returned as soon as the threat of war is over, how the king gave his word that Winterfell will stand for and aid them. He waved the last peasant out of the room and Jon looked around. Guards, family members of Manderly and some of his bannermen, servants rushing about.

“Is that it?” He asked, his annoyance clearly audible through his words.

“Yes, your grace,” Manderly turned. “I apologise for it was rather tedious, I know. Your presence means a lot to my people, I cannot thank you enough for this visit. I feared that they would mutiny sooner or later, the care you show us is more than any amount of grain at this time.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I sat here all day, listening to the opposite. The people are suffering. You ought to report such situations as these to Winterfell.”

“Your Grace, I…” Manderly began but Jon continued, cutting him off.

“Lady Stark did right, and I would’ve done the same. But White Harbor is different, in that it is not merely a keep. You ought to think, Lord Manderly, and you ought to raise when our requests put too much a burden on the shoulders of the commonfolk here. They aren’t farmers, and trade will decline more with the weather. You are to halve the stock you send from now and fill up your own stock. Increase the rations by a half at the least.”

Manderly nodded with a smile. His king was truly different, he could see that in the rare times he’s heard him speak before, and he could see it now. Good luck to Edric Snow convincing his king of anything. He liked Jon Snow, but he also feared Jon Snow. Manderly knew, a king not conforming was a king unpredictable. A king who cared so much for the commonfolk was a marvel of nonconformity, capable of anything in Manderly’s eyes in order to ensure his people survived. That is what made king Jon so fearsome, he knew.

“A hearty supper shall ease your mind, your grace,” he grinned, “I know it will surely ease mine. Nothing helps more such worries than a proper supper washed down with good northern ale.”

Jon’s fist slammed onto the table before he could even catch himself. He rose swiftly, his cheeks burning crimson in his rage.

“A hearty supper?!” He raised his voice just enough for those closest around them to hear. “Your people are starving, my Lord, OUR people are starving. And you talk of hearty supper?”

He walked past Manderly, Lord Reed rising as swiftly as he could to follow as he made his way from the hall. He turned back halfway, standing in the middle just where all those townspeople whose plight he spent his day listening to stood before.

“Forget your hearty supper, Lord Manderly. This is an order from your king. Forget about it, because if I ever hear of it again, I shall certainly be inclined to show you my idea of a just supper.” He took a deep breath, glancing at Reed, to calm himself. “Whatever you had prepared, feed it to those poor beggars outside your keep and I shall sup with Lord Reed in my chamber. Two bowls from the common kitchens will suffice.” With that he turned and rushed from the room.

“I can’t help but feel it wasn’t for the benefit of entertaining the king,” Reed said as Jon slowed for the old man to be able to catch up with him as they walked the corridor toward their chambers.

Jon shrugged. “We came for nothing but listening to the poor,” he hissed, “albeit at least I could step in.”

Reed registered his words with slight amusement. Gods, he enjoyed Jon Snow. Years and years passed with him growing old and weary and plagued by bout, wondering what kind of man the boy turned out to be. Jon kept exceeding his expectations. A champion of the poor now, as well. He’d make a fine king for the Seven Kingdoms. Reed was eager to see it come true. He was smarter than to speak of such things, seeing how the boy was still uneasy with it all, but who would not be? From ugly duckling grows a swan, he thought, and from a bastard emerged a prince, and a true leader. Reed promptly thanked the Old Gods once more for granting him long life to see it happen as he walked beside the king, without a hint of doubt in his mind that he’d walk beside him to the end of his days.

“If I may speak,” he said then.

Jon stopped and turned. “Lord Reed, if you may stop asking for permission to speak. Ser Davos is not here, I asked for you to come so I have wise advice. Speak up, my Lord.” He was stern, but the corner of his mouth turned into a slight smile as he spoke.

“If I came at the head of a group of exiles to seek audience with the only man who can grant me passage home, I would not stand in front of the high table to do so.”

Jon pondered on it for a moment, before he raised his eyebrows. Reed continued. “I would want to see what that man is made of.”

“You say Manderly was… setting me up?”

Reed’s grin was wide. The boy was quick to put two and two together.

“Aye, and I say we’ve had more in the audience than bannermen and daughters.”

Jon chuckled. “He lined up his daughters as if it was a wedding, did he not?” He asked laughing.

“The king is unmarried… there’s always hope for such foolishness, your grace.”

“I don’t even remember their names,” Jon laughed, his anger now that of the past, as he grabbed the old man’s arm and continued on the corridor.

“Your grace,” the guard bowed as they turned, stepping in front of them. He bowed too long.

As he rose his eyes met Jon’s, and Jon’s hand swiftly found the white wolf pommel on his side.

“There is no such need, your grace,” The man glanced at Jon’s hand. “I hear you’re the greatest swordsman ever lived. But you’ve never fought one who lives by the sword and I would not like to be the one who shows you what that means.”

Howland Reed and Jon both raised an eyebrow at that, but Jon dropped his hand to his side. He glanced behind him, see if he’s been set up but there was no one.

“I am alone, your grace,” the man continued. “I would not begin our acquaintance by staging an attack on the man I hope to serve.”

“And you are?” Reed asked?

The man bowed his head once more. “Edric Snow, leader of the Company of the Rose.”

“A Snow,” Reed remarked.

“Aye, a Snow. Like the King in the North.”

Jon chuckled. “Don’t they have different custom in Essos? I was told the concept of bastards is unknown, there’s no marriage.”

Snow’s smile grew wide at that. “No there is none. We chose the name Snow. Bastards of the North, we are.”

Jon’s face softened at hearing that, listening to the man in front of him.

“Our ancestors abandoned their family names a long time ago, your grace, if they had one. We chose to be bastards of the North, see that we are Northmen driven from the North.”

“Those who formed the company chose exile, Lord Snow,” Reed pointed out.

“Just Edric, if it please, and yes that is correct. But they chose it over slavery in anything but name and a collar on their necks to show for it.”

Jon wondered about his words, what would he do? If he was of the North at the time Torrhen Stark bent the knee to his own ancestor Aegon Targaryen, what would he have done?

“So, you all call yourselves Snow, is that what you’re saying?” Reed was amused.

“Well, not all. Some in the company are not blood of the first men, of the North, but just as loyal and willing to fight for it. Stories of the kingdom that was and the Kings of Winter of old were passed from generation to generation. The North remembers.”

“It must be confusing in a rather ironic, delightful way,” Jon remarked with a grin. “So many Snows.”

“Aye, your grace, it could be. Hence why we rarely use the name in conversation. Hence why it would please me greatly if you called me Edric.”

“You say you are willing to fight for the North,” Reed remarked, eager to get to the truth of this conversation.

“For an Independent North, we are,” Edric stepped back two steps. “We’ve been sent for once before. A Stark was proclaimed king, Robb Stark, in open war with the south. I travelled to White Harbor with haste yet by the time of my arrival, the North has fallen once more.”

“Robb was my brother,” Jon said softly, remembering his closest friend and ally in his childhood fondly.

“Aye, slain at a Frey wedding that was meant to be his own, after he broke his vow. I hear the Freys got their payback, winter has come for them.” Jon’s eyes narrowed at the disgust he perceived behind the man’s words.

“It did,” he admitted, not feeling the need to explain any further that his little sister was responsible for that massacre all by herself, or dwell on how unjust the Red Wedding was, or Snow’s words for that matter.

“Good,” Edric grinned.

“Why hiding from me?” Jon asked, “Why not seek a proper audience?”

“To see what kind of king YOU are,” Edric shrugged, his gaze piercing Jon’s own.

“And?” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“A fair one.”

“So, let’s talk. What do you want?” Jon grew weary of this corridor chatter, he found himself desperately searching for the catch. Edric Snow laughed.

“Enough wasting time with idle chatter then.”

“No, the dead don’t either,” Jon hissed. “I tell you, the long night will come again, and so if you want something, that is MY price. Fight beside me, and perhaps I grant you what you want. I allow your return home.”

Edric Snow smiled knowingly. “I expected not to be allowed to return without a price, your grace. But I expected to fight Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jon puffed at that. “You may not believe me, Edric Snow. But I’ve seen, and I’ve fought the dead. There’s a hundred thousand of them at least, and they are marching on the wall. If you mean to fight for the North, for the survival of the North, then you join in the Great War against the dead. That is the only war that matters.”

Snow studied Jon then. Manderly told him of the wight that the king took to Winterfell, to show them all. He recalled the dread on fat Manderly’s face as he nodded to Jon.

“And,” Jon raised an eyebrow. “If you do join us, I count on you to stay true your word. You may end up fighting alongside Daenerys Targaryen. Perhaps even Cersei Lannister.”

Edric Snow was honestly surprised to hear his words. “You mean to unite the Seven Kingdoms?”

Jon’s gaze betrayed his annoyance. “No, but if I can help it I’d unite its people against a common enemy,” he said coolly. “Even then, the odds would never be in our favour.”

“Do not look so surprised, Edric,” Lord Reed stepped in. “The king united the freefolk and the northmen against the Boltons. If anyone, he can bring the Dragon Queen to the fold.”

“I already did,” Jon said lowly as he measured up the commander once more with his gaze. “How many men?”

“5000 footsoldiers, with sword, lance and shield, another 5000 cavalry, equipped with sword but more than decent with the bow as well, and with two horse each. And 800 wolves,” Edric said proudly, “and if I may add, about 4000 women and children.”

“Wolves?” Jon and Reed asked in union.

“Aye, direwolves,” Jon could swear the man stood an inch taller as he’s said that. “We train direwolves. Albeit we rarely used them before, they’re more like… pets. But they’re gruesome beasts ready to fight.”

“It is about time the North had homed more direwolves than just Ghost,” Jon said with a chuckle, “My direwolf. But how do they survive in Essos?”

“We breed them, your grace,” Edric said softly, “The hills of Norvos provide a forgiving climate, if a bit too warm for all of our taste. They shed their winter furs for good, but they’re loyal beasts. They would enjoy roaming the plains of the North once more.”

Jon smiled at that. It was interesting really, for when ever he allowed himself to think of how it would be once all their wars were won, if they could be won, he always imagined northern summer fields, and direwolves in the Wolfswood once more and in the Northern Mountains, howling whenever the summer storms hit with roaring thunder.

“I shall draw up the contract then,” Lord Reed concluded, seeing that his king was satisfied with what they’ve heard – or plainly just daydreaming.

“No need,” Edric Snow smiled in response, “We trust the word of a Stark. We shall trust the word of our King, I know you’ll be true to your word, your grace.”

“Aye, I am. Or I try to be,” Jon said, brushing out of his mind the notion to state that he was no Stark. “Fight alongside us, and you’ll be free to settle, with lands granted adequately to your people.”

“Adequately?” Edric raised an eyebrow.

“Adequately,” Jon repeated firmly. “I will not disclose more, so don’t pry. Rest assured they are generous. Lady Stark will only ask that you rename the keep. Perhaps plant some roses. She does like roses.”

Edric Snow laughed at that. He knew enough to realise, the king confirmed the Dreadfort as their consideration, without committing so. It was good enough, more than just good, it was the best they could hope for if they meant to settle.

“How long?” Jon asked, restless to conclude.

“They shall sail within a fortnight after receiving my message, your grace. I shall sail to Braavos at once to superwise our departure..”

“I trust you have captains to handle that,” Jon interrupted, “for you shall do no such thing. You and whomever you arrived with shall return with me to Winterfell. Send a raven.”

“Not very trustworthy, your grace?” Edric grinned.

“I would rather be assured then taken by surprise. Be ready with whomever you brought with you, to depart at first light tomorrow for Winterfell.”

Edric bowed with a wide smile on his face and left them. This went rather… honest, he thought. He expected an argument, some kind of trickery, some sort of threatening needed to get what he wanted. Starks it seemed carried on the honour they were so known for, albeit this young king was a bastard. ‘So are we all’, he noted to himself. After all, they waited for this for 300 years. Edric didn’t mind if he didn’t have to play word games now. His father, and his father before him, all their elders always used to say, one day the King in the North will call upon them and they’ll return home. The day has finally come.

Lord Reed closed the door behind him, watching Jon sink into a chair by the table. Two bowls were prepared for them, albeit their contents no longer steaming.

“What do you think?” Reed asked, and Jon chuckled.

“That is funny,” Jon said kindly, “Davos always asks the same thing. What do I think.”

“It is hard to advise a man whose thoughts you don’t know.”

“I think it was easy, and that makes me uneasy,” Jon sighed. “On the other hand, I could do with some ‘easy’. I’m tired of arguing for every bit of what we need.”

With that, he took the spoon and began to eat the stew, slightly disgusted. “Man, they need a proper cook in those kitchens. Shall tell Manderly tomorrow to send his, since he no longer has a need for them.” They laughed heartily.


	12. Kings Landing I.

Davos stood at the crossing, studying the guards that lined the path. ‘So here we are’.

Brienne seemed just as uneasy as Davos felt, lifting her weight from one leg to another, she kept glancing at Pod, the squire fiddling with his sword belt as if it needed adjusting and he was never happy with the result.

The sellsword didn’t talk to them. They rode into the city only at sunrise today, opting to camp outside the walls among the hills by the bay, but Davos wondered which was worse. This way, he’s got a stark reminder of the last time he’s been here – his son burned by wildfire as he watched, himself stuck on the same stones nearby in the end, only to be rescued once the battle ended. That wildfire attack was orchestrated by Tyrion Lannister, Davos knew – and if they succeeded today, Tyrion Lannister would become their ally. If there was anything to learn from his king, it was to put the past in the past, and Davos chuckled at the thought now of how many lessons his king may give him more of this very same principle.

A group approached, Dothraki. The Lannister, and Missandei, the girl from Naath was a welcome sight to Davos. The exiled Mormont knight. Lord Varys. The queen was nowhere to be seen.

“Welcome, my friends,” – Davos smirked at the Flea Bottom accent as he listened – “Your friends have arrived before you did.”

He glanced at Clegane who kicked a neatly attired Lannister boy in the shoulder. “Move!” and so their “gift” began to lead the way, as the small cart took to the path once more, followed by Davos, Clegane and Brienne, then the Queen’s entourage.

“Why did they build it?” Davos glanced back at Missandei, who spoke.

“Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t. Letting them roam free around the city was a problem.” Jorah Mormont spoke kindly, and wisely.

“I imagine it was a sad joke in the end,” Tyrion chipped in, looking around. He lived here for years, and yet, he’s never been to the Dragon Pit. It’s odd how one never even feigns interest in the place they call home until they’re gone from it. “An entire arena for a few sickly creatures smaller than dogs. But in the beginning, when it was home for Balerion the Dread, it must’ve been the most dangerous place in the world.”

“Maybe it still is.” Davos remarked, and Tyrion looked at him lengthily, understanding in his eyes.

Pod stepped beside Davos, turning toward Tyrion and the two greeted each other. As Davos listened, he wondered how many relations, good or bad, saw reunion today. It seemed to him that everyone knew everyone, even the sellsword seemed to have found employment by Tyrion before. Alliances started to be questioned. This was tricky, Davos thought to himself. They all had experiences, of course they did, but to talk of someone turning, let alone a sellsword, in this place, Davos thought it reckless even if it was merely a joke.

He’s had enough time by now to understand that while he was by Stannis’ side, these people lived and fought and loved and entangled themselves with just about everyone else. When Jon asked him if he would represent the North on this meeting, it wasn’t really a question – Davos knew that was the right way of going about it. And when Jon told him he’ll send the Hound to “assist with the gift to Cersei”, he also knew to seek out Brienne straight away. And Brienne, smart woman as she was, resolved what ever outstanding matters she may have had with Clegane before they set out, Davos didn’t even need to ask. Their company was small among armies of thousands, easily caught between crossfire if two queens decided that a summit was a waste of their time – they should be able to bind together. Jon Snow’s mantra – bind together. Davos nodded to himself in agreement.

“Anyone touches it, I kill you first.” Davos chuckled hearing Clegane instruct these poor Lannister guards in his usual fashion. The man was rough, with everyone, but Davos could see after travelling with him for weeks that it was only the exterior. He cared. He cared enough to fight alongside the living, to know where he was needed. Davos knew he served the Lannisters once, Jon explained the reference to the butcher’s boy, Lady Arya – whom Davos really should stop calling a Lady – mentioned her time travelling with the man. It is interesting indeed how all these people relate to each other. They change sides, then change again, friends become enemies, and enemies become allies. What has the world become, when did it get so complicated.

The Dragon Pit was still the same ruin he knew. A stage has been built in the middle, fresh for this occasion Davos realised. On it, three tents stood, three sides of a square, with chairs under the tents. Cersei at least put some thought to pretend they were all equals in this, Davos thought. He fully expected the meeting to take place as an audience in the throne room, and when he’s heard of the location, he expected as much as Cersei having moved that ugly chair both queens coveted so much, into the Dragon Pit. Set it atop one of the ruined walls perhaps. This setting was actually sensible, even if it was clear she reserved the middle tent to herself: Bronn gestured them to the right, and the Targaryen posse to the left.

Davos didn’t bother to look for exits and points of entry where if needed, a small army could more than likely ambush them – there was no point, he accepted that they may as well walk into an ambush today. Instead he studied faces. The Dothraki wasn’t happy for sure – they’ve spent this time doing what Davos refused to. Varys looked grim, and if Davos was right, bored. Having to attend to such meetings and speak in the open instead of scheming in the dark must feel boring to one who built a life and career on the latter. Tyrion Lannister looked focused now, as he sat – climbed on – a chair. He was preparing himself.

They were surrounded by Lannister guards, as they stood and sat silently. Then they all stood.

A monstrosity of a man appeared in armour, and then the Lannister queen herself and her brother, some smug guy who eyed the Greyjoy boy Jon has beaten up previously on the beach at Dragonstone, with a cocky smile on his face. And more Lannister guards.

Clegane stepped to the armour-clad monster and spoke, but Davos couldn’t make out what was said. Yet he could see under the helmet, around the eyes, the beast had blue skin. It didn’t look too good, not at all.

They all sat. More silence to follow, Davos noted to himself, it seemed this meeting will be of very few words…

“Where is she?” The Lannister queen asked Tyrion.

“She’ll be here soon” It seemed to Davos that Tyrion tried hard to sound as calming as possible. It seemed to him that Tyrion feared the queen that was his own sister, but Davos couldn’t be sure.

“She didn’t travel with you?

“No”.

More silence. Dragon shriek in the sky. Some men stood, and Brienne but Davos remained on his seat. The show was not for him. Of course, she’d make an entrance, and if Jon was here she’d also intend it for him almost as much as for the Lannister queen. But Jon was not here, and thus the show was futile. All their attempts at assert themselves was futile, just as Jon intended, when he asked Davos to take his place here. Jon was smart. This single move outdid all the elaborate show-off attempts, Davos now saw clearly. He wasn’t yet sure of the message it sent, but that’ll come soon enough, he thought, as he watched the Dragon Queen arrive, climb off the back of her black dragon with considerable amount of grace, and walk to her seat. The Lannister Queen remained seated as well. Davos could see beneath the attempt of her bored face that she was terrified.

“We’ve been here for some time.” The Lannister Queen hissed toward the Dragon Queen and Davos felt the need to laugh. Was it to be this petty?

“My apologies”. Good, she didn’t sink to that level of low then. Davos decided to measure them up. At the end of the day he was here to gain allies, and it’d be good to know which was worthy, if either – albeit, that assessment was very likely to have no worth in whom became an ally. They may have to sneak out of the city to escape at the end of this, if they don’t get slaughtered here in the Dragon Pit first.

Daenerys nodded to Tyrion who stood and cleared his throat. He began to speak, but the smug guy interrupted and this time, Davos chuckled. Jon, oh Jon, what are you missing out on? So, the smug fella has the Greyjoy boy’s sister captive. Some banter about dwarf jokes. Very unproductive. The Lannisters demanded the fella sits back besides them, and it was over.

“We are a group of people who do not like one another, as this recent demonstration has shown,” Tyrion continued, stepping in front of his sister. “We have suffered at each other’s hands, we have lost people we love at each other’s hands.” Yes, that was true. “If all we wanted would be more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face to face.”

“So instead we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?” She’s smug, Tyrion’s sister, almost as bad as the fella who she’s demanded to sit a few moments ago.

“We all know that will never happen,” Tyrion answered.

“Then why are we here.”

Tyrion was out of his depth against his own sister. If Jon was here, he’d stand and speak – the king isn’t one for this idle chatter. Davos stood. He knew what Jon would say to all this.

“Forgive me your grace,” he said. “This isn’t about living in harmony. It’s just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us, a general you can’t negotiate with and an army that doesn’t leave behind corpses on the battlefield.”

Cersei Lannister’s eyes sunk into him then, as if she’s not noticed him before at all. Of course, she didn’t, she was at war with Daenerys, their little show off was taking all the attention away from the his side of the stage.

“And you are?” she asked, her gaze settling on the badge on Davos’ chest. Direwolf in a reaching hand.

“Ser Davos Seaworth, your grace,” Davos nodded, “Hand of the King in the North.”

“And where is the King in the North?” she snarled, her eyes scanning the northern tent. “Where is Sansa?”

“The Lady of Winterfell, your grace” Davos begun, noting with triumph that his words had the effect on Cersei as her mouth narrowed at hearing them, “has stayed behind to continue oversight of the preparations for winter, your grace. As you know the Kingdom of the North has seen a recent war, and winter has truly come.”

“And your king? Where is Ned Stark’s bastard?”

Davos glanced at Daenerys, who tilted her head to side slightly as she also expected an explanation with fury in her eyes.

“Your graces, my King sends his apologies,” Davos begun. “However, you shall see for yourself why he is not here. Why the North does not march its army south in protection of their King to attend this summit. Why the King does not attend without his army, I’ve seen the reason for that outside the walls as well as on top of them.”

“So now we know,” Tyrion leaned against Daenerys ear, and Varys leaned close. “He sensed a trap, your grace, that is all.”

Daenerys nodded, her face softened. Davos took a deep breath.

“A million people live in this city,” Davos said. “If my King is defeated, they’ll become a million more soldiers in the army of the dead.”

“I imagine for most of them it’d be an improvement.”

Davos stepped closer to Cersei Lannister. “Aye, the suffering of the poor in Kings Landing is a part of life and well known at that. It’s what I had the misfortune to endure before, and one that I hope to see put to end, once all wars are over and all battles are fought. But not today, this is not why we are here. This is serious.”

“I don’t think it’s serious at all, I think it’s a bad joke.” Cersei wasn’t offended by Davos’ subtle remark regarding her lack of care for her own people.

She turned toward Daenerys then. “If my brother Jaime informed me correctly, you are asking me for a truce.”

“Yes, that is all.”

“That is all?” The hatred between these two women was so thick, Davos could swear he could see it with his own eyes, draw a sword and he could slice it to pieces. “Pull back my armies and wait while you go on a monster hunt, or while you solidify and expand your position? It’s hard to tell, with my armies pulled back, until you return and march on MY capital with four times the men.”

“There is no conversation that will erase the last fifty years,” Tyrion stepped between them, turning to Davos.

“The king has sent a gift, your grace,” Davos said to Cersei then, “One that he hoped would explain his absence as well as the need for this summit.”

He could see in the corner of his eyes that Daenerys tensed as she leaned back in her chair. Tyrion nodded and a pair of Dothraki as well as Jorah stepped in front of the queen.

Clegane carried the crate on his back. He knelt to put it down and he unbuckled it. Pulled off the lid and jumped. It didn’t move, and Davos wondered if it lived still, as much as it was living in the first place. He nodded to Brienne who stood, drawing her sword as she stepped forward. It was time for Davos to give up the stage, as he sat back he watched Jaime Lannister’s gaze settling on Brienne.

Clegane waited for a few moments, but finally kicked the crate. It shrieked, and ran, half rotten, Bowen Marsh who was once was a collection of bones and dangling flesh and torn clothing, as it shrieked from its sunken face and made its way for Cersei. As if it knew, Davos thought.

Jaime Lannister jumped up, while Cersei grabbed the arms of her chair in terror. Yet the wight didn’t reach her, Clegane pulled on its chains and dragged it backwards just enough for it to never reach Cersei Lannister. It fell back, turned to Clegane who simply cut it in half. Yet it kept moving, shrieking, crawling. Davos saw Jamie Lannister’s horror clearly on his face. The Hand of the Lannister Queen stood. Clegane cut off a hand, that fell back, and the Hand picked up the hand, studying it with eyes full of wonder at the fingers still attempting to grasp at something.

The wight crawled at Brienne. Davos gave her a torch, and they lit it, as the Queen’s Hand gave back the piece of rotten flash of a hand. Brienne burned the hand, then draw a dagger. “This is dragonglass,” she said as she held it up for all to see, then she lifted the remaining hand of the wight that by now crawled to her feet, and plunged the dagger into its heart, or where its heart once had been. Then it was over. It was silence.

Jamie Lannister’s eyes settled on Brienne once more as she sat back to her seat. Davos stood, and stepping across the remains of the wight, he walked to stand in front of Cersei Lannister. The terror was still visible on her face.

“Your graces, I know you both feel that your cause for the Iron Throne is just,” Davos said, glancing at Daenerys before he turned his gaze back to Cersei. “but there is only one war that matters. The Great War, and it is here, so either you continue this bickering until it reaches you, or you join us. My King cares little for the Iron Throne. My King is marching North to defend the wall, and if, and when the wall should fall, to defend the people of the north, because if we don’t win this fight, this is the fate that awaits all of us, and then it won’t matter whose corpse sits on the Iron Throne. You’ll all be dead. I’ll be dead, my king will be dead, and all our children will be dead, and those yet to come will never have a chance to be born.”

Cersei took a deep breath at hearing his words but didn’t respond. Heavy silence settled on all of them once more.

“I didn’t believe it until I saw them,” Daenerys said. “I saw them all.”

“How many?” Jaime Lannister looked truly shocked, his voice broken.

“Hundred thousand, at the least.” Daenerys was firm, resolute. Davos knew in that moment as he listened to the Dragon Queen, they had at least one ally here. But it all depended on the Lannisters, he knew that too.

The cocky fella stood once more, walked to the beast. Touched its skin.

“Can they swim?” What? Davos was surprised.

“Not that we know of.” He answered.

“Good. I’m taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands. I’ve been around the world, I’ve seen everything… and this,” the man looked back at the corpse, “This is the only thing that terrified me.”

He walked to Daenerys, the Dothraki reaching for their arakhs. “I’m going back to my island, you should go back to yours. When winter’s over, we’ll be the only ones left alive.” Davos listened in disgust and… did he truly wink at the Dragon Queen? She was unphased.

Then the man walked away without looking back even once. Davos took a deep breath turning back to Cersei, silently asking her to speak the right words now, to see sense.

“He’s right to be afraid, and a coward to run. If those things come for us, there’ll be no kingdoms to rule, everything we suffered would be for nothing, everything we’ve lost would be for nothing,” her gaze settled on Daenerys. “The crown accepts your truce.” Davos let out the breath he held. “Until the dead are defeated, hey are the true enemy.”

‘Good.’ Davos thought, looking at a visibly relieved Brienne.

“In return the King in the North will extend this truce,” she continued, catching Davos’ attention. “He will remain in the North where he belongs, he will not take up arms against the crown, he will honour the pledge of his ancestors to the Iron Throne.”

No.

“Honour the pledge of his ancestors…” Davos repeated. Clever word to say, bend the knee. “Your grace, the King in the North is not here to honour any pledge, he cannot honour a pledge in his absence, and I cannot honour a pledge in his name that contradicts the very existence of the King in the North, without consulting the King in the North, truly you can see that.”

“What are you saying, Ser?” Cersei smirked. It was a game. It was a game she played well enough to make it seem that they stood in the way of the very alliance they hoped to achieve.

“I am saying, that I am the queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Cersei continued firmly, glancing at Daenerys then looking back at Davos. “Seven Kingdoms, ser.”

“As far as I can tell, your grace, my King won the North by conquest and was proclaimed King by its people. Through that act of proclamation, the North became an independent Kingdom. Now if you ask for our alliance, that is another matter altogether, but if you speak of overlordship, that again contradicts with the very proclamation the people of the North has made. They chose no fealty. I am but one man and not of the North, I doubt I have the right to proclaim it otherwise.”

“An Independent Kingdom…” Cersei hissed, her green eyes piercing Davos’ heart through the badge he wore. He knew he should speak for as long as possible, he should sow the seeds of thoughts that Jon made sure he remembered, he should turn her. It didn’t seem possible, but Jon was right, again. It all hinged on what he’s said next.

“My king cares little of your fight, my king cares for the North. Only the North and always the North. You say the Iron Throne would claim overlordship of the North. Was it my King standing before you, he told you the same – it doesn’t matter now what you claim. She demanded the same…” Davos gestured to Daenerys, “And she can tell you herself that she’s failed to achieve it just as you will fail. My King will not bend the knee to a southern ruler when the enemy is coming to wipe out the whole kingdom of the North and erase it from memory. If my King swore fealty to the Iron Throne, the next thing you did was calling upon him and his army to join your fight against the Targaryen forces. Same for you, your Grace,” he turned to Daenerys once more, “I believe you were told the same, your grace, by my King.”

Daenerys nodded.

He sighed once more, turning back to Cersei. “We are in the path of the dead, that is true. You both can sit back and wait and see how my King battles against the odds once more just as he battled against the odds when he wiped out the Boltons. We may fail, it is true. Or we may succeed, and if we do, you all know that the North always remembers.”

“The North will remember who aided them in their fight, the North will remember who set aside their own agenda to fight for the living. The North will remember who came to our aid. These were my King’s words when he tasked me to come here. He said, ‘Tell them, I will not ally the North to a ruler who didn’t fight by our side against our enemy when we needed them to, I will not shed Northern blood to fight for someone who didn’t do the same for us.’ These were his exact words, your graces. I can only convey them to you, to consider what they mean. I could never kneel in front of either of you and pledge the North, it is not mine to give. This is your choice but heed my King’s words. He’s always true to his words.”

He took a deep breath as he finished, he said what he could. Give them hope, Davos. Give them something to cling to, make them believe. He sat back in his chair, his eyes met Tyrion’s and saw the understanding in his eyes.

Tyrion leaned to Daenerys.

“Pledge your support, now,” he whispered, but Daenerys stood and walked to stand in front of Davos.

“It is true that your king refused to bend the knee to me, Ser Davos,” she said firmly. “And it is true that I went and saw the countless dead with my own eyes. I saw Hardhome, I stood where your king fought them, and was defeated by them.” Davos nodded. Good, ‘Jon, it’s good that you told her after all.’

“You asked me for dragonglass and left with what I presume very little to put to use,” she continued. “We’ve brought forty crates of dragonglass, 5000 Dothraki riders and 8000 unsullied, two armies, and three grown dragons. Here’s my pledge to your king, I will fight beside the North, independent or not. I WILL fight for the living.”

With that she turned and sat back on her seat. Davos’ gaze settled on Cersei just like everyone else’s. Davos knew that she was outmanoeuvred. By the Gods, Jon outmanoeuvred them all by sending him here. They could argue and demand, was it the King who stood here, but they must’ve understood that Davos being the Hand, it was impossible. He could only act upon instruction, thank the Gods for that. So, Jon outbid them both, and now, out in the open for all to hear, they were both to decide.

Daenerys plays her part admirably, Davos thought. It seemed to him that the Dragon Queen didn’t need her own Hand’s advice to see this for what it was. Her face didn’t betray it even if she felt bitter about how the meeting unfolded, but then again, she saw them. She knew the threat was real. Out of the two of them queens, she seemed to be the more reasonable to Davos, she seemed to care for the people. Perhaps she seemed to be even good.

Cersei stood. Her face was stern, void of emotion. The face of a player. Jaime Lannister leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear and she listened shaking her head, a flicker of anger shining in her eyes. Jaime Lannister grabbed her arm, and whispered some more, until she brushed him aside.

She looked at Davos then.

“My armies will not stand down. I will not pull them back to the Capitol,” ‘She took the bait?’ Davos wondered, ‘or she would attack us from behind.’ “We cannot fight on two fronts, Davos,” he heard Jon’s voice as he watched the Lannister Queen draw a deep breath.

“I will march them north to fight alongside the King in the North in the Great War.”

“The Darkness is coming for us all and we will face it together. And when the Great War is over perhaps your King will remember that I chose to help. No promises or assurances from the North.” She turned to Jaime Lannister. “Call our banners. All of them.” She stepped from her chair…

“How many?” Davos asked in haste. Jon would want to know, he thought. Jon wouldn’t let her leave, Jon would want to know how many he gains, or how many would turn against him and fight him on the Trident while the dead pins down his army at the wall.

Cersei glanced at Jaime Lannister and nodded. “Six thousand could reach the Trident in a fortnight if we march without provisions and the North provides,” Jaime declared, “Another 2000 in a moon or so.” Davos didn’t believe the latter. But it didn’t matter. Cersei was outnumbered from the start, and it was declared here and now.

“Lady Sansa is hard at work to ensure those provisions, Ser,” Davos answered. It wasn’t exactly true, but it must be true now, because leaving behind an army meant increasing the threat of a southern attack. Jon said as much, and it seemed to Davos now, that Jon was always right. It seemed to Davos that Jon planned for this from the start, even if that wasn’t true either. “The Lannister army, the unsullied army and the Dothraki shall march, now. We have no time to waste, the dead are marching on the wall and any day now, they may begin their attack.”

Daenerys stepped to Cersei then and reached out a hand. “I will not fight against you, not until the northern threat is dealt with. You have my word.” She glanced at Davos. “There’ll be no trouble on the march.” Davos nodded thankfully.

“The word of a would-be usurper,” Cersei hissed, as she looked down on Daenerys’ arm reached out to her. But she took it. Yet it was odd, she didn’t say anything more. Davos wondered at that, watching the Lannister Queen walk away.

He stood and turned to Brienne. “We are to leave this place, as soon as we can,” and Brienne nodded in agreement. “I have business in Flea Bottom, wait for me at the camp. I shall be back by nightfall.” He turned to leave.

“Ser Davos,” Tyrion called after him and he turned.

“Well played, Ser Davos,” he said, “well played.”


	13. Kings Landing II.

“I don’t see the reason why you two aren’t satisfied with the outcome,” Daenerys notes nonchalantly, her gaze settling on Varys.

“It is not that we are not satisfied,” Tyrion stepped in. “I for one, am very satisfied. It is how it went down. We called this summit to gain a truce.”

“We gained a truce,” Daenerys said firmly.

“We did, and now we are ought to march north alongside our enemies.”

She sipped from her cup. “I am supposed to be advised by two of the cleverest men in Westeros,” she remarked, “who cannot grasp what they have gained today.” She leaned back on her chair, just as the breeze of the winter winds reached her. She closed her eyes to enjoy it on her skin for a moment. Ser Jorah, cause of the movement of air as he’s stepped into the tent, now stopped beside her.

“What more have we gained exactly?” Varys asked.

“You, Lord Varys,” Daenerys opened her eyes, “champion of the realm that you are, you have gained complete unity for the common cause that is protecting the common people. I have gained assurance that Cersei will be true to her word, with her army marching beside us. Lord Tyrion gained the satisfaction of seeing her sister cornered, and we all gained something else. The knowledge that we could easily defeat her, we outnumber her two to one. That, is a successful outcome. You both should thank Ser Davos and the King in the North for doing your jobs for you.” She sipped from her cup then, her eyes scanning their faces.

“What happens when all our armies in the north, we defeated the dead?” Varys was unconvinced.

“We turn, and fight our enemies,” Daenerys said without pause, for her, this was obvious.

“In the North,” Tyrion remarked, “who will those enemies be, Your Grace?”

“Whomever stands in our way.”

Tyrion sighed. “As much as I am glad to hear this, if I may point out that the North has declared Independence today. And as they went unchallenged, they are now truly independent from the Seven Kingdoms. Six kingdoms.”

Daenerys pondered on that. “You’re asking me if I’ll fight to subdue the North,” she said lowly as she looked up at Jorah standing beside her.

“I believe that question can wait, Lord Tyrion,” Ser Jorah said. “Your sister is the bigger threat. Yet with her army north, they can be defeated on northern soil.”

“And when we turn against the Lannister army,” Tyrion pushed the question, “who will the northerners fight for? Who will king Jon support, now that both sides march to his aid? I am certain he won’t split his armies in half to be fair, albeit knowing the Starks I am sure he’d consider it.”

Daenerys smiled. “It seems we have the upper hand,” she said.

“How?”

“Do you see your sister leaving the Capitol ahead of her army? I don’t.”

Tyrion glanced at Varys, then back at the queen. “You imply that your very person can turn the king to our cause.”

“Not my person, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys responded, “not the way you think and what you imply would not work with Jon Snow anyway, even if I was willing to lower myself that way. But if I learned anything about the King in the North, it is that he leads from the front. I feel that his alliance will depend on whom he finds worthy, and I will lead our armies from the front. I will fight for the North, I said it and I meant it. Your sister can sit it out in the Red Keep with her army led by her brother fighting in the North, but I will not sit it out. Do you think Jon Snow won’t respect that?”

Tyrion smiled. “This is true,” he admitted. “Albeit it is against what our next counsel would’ve been.”

“I don’t need to hear it again,” Daenerys’ smile was soft, understanding. “I know you worry for my welfare, you said so enough. But this is the way. This is my way. My dragons are more effective with me leading them, and they need to be effective.”

“So, we expect the King to surrender his crown out of respect,” Varys remarked. “Very honourable deed indeed. What will the people say?”

“The people will see the Queen fight for them,” Jorah declared, “they will come to know her for who she is and know that she would fight for them. Honour and bravery are still alive in the North, Lord Varys. The North does not bode well with scheming in the shadows, but they will always stand for the brave and honourable.”

***

Cersei watched as they stood in the hall, where only a few moons ago she’s had the floor painted. A map of the whole of the Seven Kingdoms was under their feet. Cersei swallowed. Seven Kingdoms.

“Ser Jaime,” she called out, and the generals promptly bowed and excused themselves. “What are your plans then?”

“We need another two days, to arm and to take provisions that last to the Trident. We leave behind 500 for your protection, in addition to those who are recovering. The rest will march, out the Dragon’s Gate and meet Daenerys’ armies. That is all.”

“You will lead them on the march?”

“Of course,” Jamie wondered where she was leading this. “I will not surrender command, if that is what you fear.”

“I would rather that you stayed behind.”

Jamie turned in shock. “I vowed to fight for the living, and I intend to keep that promise. I am the Commander.”

Cersei sighed. “It is a trap. The bitch outnumbers us two to one, and now she knows thanks to your account. What do you think she’ll do when the dead are defeated?”

“What are you implying?”

“You were always the stupidest Lannister, you know,” Cersei said lowly, “she’ll turn on you as soon as the dead are defeated if not before, and her Dothraki and Unsullied will slaughter what remains of our army.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily the case,” Jaime remarked, stepping away on the map to stand on Winterfell. “We’ll be on northern soil.”

“And the King in the North will fight for the Iron Throne? I don’t think so,” Cersei hissed at him. “In case you missed it, they just gained Independence from the Iron Throne. That bastard achieved it simply by not attending today.”

“Cersei,” Jaime softened, “If Ned Stark was the King who didn’t attend, what do you think he would do, when his two allies turn on each other on his land, under his protection?”

“He’d fight.”

“Yes, he would,” Jaime reasoned. “He would fight the aggressor because his honour would compel him to defend the ally thus betrayed. The boy is Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“So, all you plan to do is wait,” Cersei noted, more to herself.

“I will not attack. If she does, I will seek aid from the King in the North.”

“Good.” She walked around the map, taking in the lands portrayed. “They’ll all be north, devastating the honour of the North, and perhaps you are right. Northmen are foolishly honourable. The boy’s words shall be turned on him; and protect you.” She stopped in front of him.

“And that is how we regain the North. Through that northern honour that makes them fools.”

Jaime just looked at her, surprised. “What will you do?”

“Wait for your safe return.” She leaned up, demanding a kiss to end their conversation. She had no intention to tell him, it was better he didn’t know. He was almost as much an honourable fool as that bastard, it was better if he knew nothing. As he kissed her she wondered, what was this emptiness inside her? Brewing ever stronger where love used to overtake her.

***

Jon looked around, taking in the sight with a certain sense of pride.

Lightly armoured, but heavily cloaked footsoldiers with shield and lance marched out the gate of White Harbor in formation, lining up in those neat squares that Jon never saw northerners muster. But these weren’t mere Northerners. These were the descendants of Northerners, who were now just as much professionals as any other sellsword company would’ve been. Shiver ran down his spine. Sansa asked if he was sure of this, and truly, he wasn’t. Here he is, on a horse, behind him 5000 knights of the Vale – not northerners, only loyal to Sansa. In front of him lining up another 5000 who’s loyalty he had reason to question. Perhaps no army is ever truly loyal, he thought.

The earth shook, as their cavalry rode out between the neat squares of men, spreading out in front of them, taking up formation. These were armoured even lighter, yet they bore the same red cloak, their banners, a circle of three roses on black, and to Jon’s surprise, a white direwolf.

“That is our declaration, your grace,” Edric nodded toward them as he watched Jon’s gaze settling on a banner. “I pledged the company to you and you pledged yourself to allow our return home. We will bear that promise on our banners.”

“The stark wolf is grey,” Jon remarked.

“Aye it is,” Edric grinned, “But it was the White Wolf who made this happen.” Jon glanced at him.

“I did nothing,” He said lowly, “You and your men will fight for what you asked of me, I merely gave you a chance to prove your loyalty to the North.”

“That we shall,” Edric said. “You are humble, your grace. You humbled us all as well. My oath to you is the oath of every man in front of you, allow them to wear it above their hearts and on their flags, if it please. It does mean a lot. It means a reminder of our oath as well as a reminder that we are home.”

Jon nodded. He didn’t like it. He didn’t think it was humility on his part, but rather, caution. This army in front of him, ten thousand strong, seemed to be fanatical about these matters, of independence, of the North. That may bite back Aegon Targaryen, Jon thought.

“Have you ever considered that your own forces could be so easily defeated by us?” Edric asked, his eyes firmly set on Jon. “Of course you did. You came to greet your army with the whole cavalry that the Vale has provided your Lady Sister with, yet we still outnumber them two to one. You gambled.”

“Aye, I did.”

“You gambled on my word, that I will consider the threat you mean to fight, that I will consider my will to return my company home more than any notion of betraying the Starks.”

Jon nodded. He felt uneasy, so eager to turn back. It would’ve been futile, if a battle ensued here and now he’d be lost no matter the outcome.

“I don’t think you gambled on my honour, you may be young, but you are smarter than that,” Edric continued. “I did not instruct the change of banners, your grace. It was proposed to me, with the same words, this is what the King would think of us.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “That you shall bear my direwolf on your banners?”

“No,” Edric grinned, “that we could just as well betray you. But you are a Snow. We are Snow. Your direwolf is white as snow. Direwolves are loyal beasts, your grace. We are loyal beasts, too. We will prove ourselves loyal to the White Wolf we took on our banners. This is YOUR company now.”

With that he blew his engraved warhorn, lengthily, before he handed it to Jon. As Jon took it, the men bearing the rose collared direwolf on their sigil burst out in cheer, and Jon finally sighed of relief as he watched them, all cheering for him.

“You like your big words and your riddles even more than your name,” he remarked as he glanced behind him to see what the growing commotion was about.

“Your grace,” Bronze Yohn Royce rode forward. “Ser Davos is here.”

Jon’s face lit up with delight. Oh how he missed the old knight! He watched as the knights of the Vale parted to give way to the small company, led by Davos, Brienne and Clegane, and the twenty men who they took to Kings Landing as far as Jon could tell, all safely returned.

Jon dismounted as they did, and the cheer died out.

“You survived Kings Landing.”

“Yet again, your grace,” Davos grinned, his eyes settling on the army behind Jon.

“Now this is a welcome party.” Jon fixed the warhorn on his belt laughing, while Edric and Royce dismounted behind him.

“Aye, it is. Ours.”

“Good,” Davos nodded, “Because there are three armies marching not more than two days behind us, and whatever time they lost dragging forty crates of dragonglass with them.”

“THREE armies?” Jon was shocked, truly shocked.

“Aye, three.”

“How?”

“You did it, in your absence, your grace,” Davos said proudly. “I merely conveyed the message you’ve given to me.” His eyes settled on the broad-shouldered man behind Jon. The king noticed and stepped aside.

“Ser Davos Seaworth, hand of the King,” he said, “meet Edric Snow, leader of the Company of the Rose.”

“Your grace, YOU are the leader,” Edric remarked nodding toward the warhorn on Jon’s belt, “I am merely the commander carrying out orders from now. Shall be a nice change of responsibilities, and a welcome one.”

Jon laughed as he turned toward Davos once more. “So they BOTH…?” He didn’t know how to put it into words.

“Aye, both queens. I would say they are vying for your affections, but that isn’t exactly the case, no matter how comely you are. They are vying for your alliance once this business with the dead is dealt with.”

“How many?”

“Daenerys has 8000 unsullied, 5000 Dothraki, 3 dragons. Cersei sent 6000 men, those that were ready to march.”

“What’s left behind?”

“Could be nothing, perhaps a few hundred guards. The wounded from Blackwater Rush, if any. The number we’ve been given sounded too high, 2000.”

Jon nodded.

“We have 4000 northerners, 2000 of the freefolk, less their losses at Winterfell, we have 5000 knights of the Vale, 10000 Snows, and…” Jon turned to Edric, “Have you left your wolves in Essos, then?”

“No, your grace, look ahead.” He pointed toward the hill and Jon could see then, a large group of wolves, he could just about make out Ghost’s white fur in the distance. So that is why his friend abandoned his side.

“A little short of twenty and one thousand men, and hundreds of wolves,” Jon said smiling, “and nineteen thousand men marching north. Still not a hundred thousand, but better odds than we had at Winterfell.”


	14. The Twins I.

Jon looked behind him once more. Fifteen thousand men. Gods, if Lord Stark had seen this. What would he say? If Robb had seen this… if Robb had fifteen thousand men, he’d still live, Jon was sure of it. The winter sun shone on their shields, their helmets, and Jon had to admit to himself, the sight was beautiful to behold, it filled him with pride. Pride and hope.

“You never asked me where to put your 4000 women and children,” Jon said turning to Edric by his side.

“White Harbor, your grace,” Edric said lowly, “Lord Manderly has put them up. Our huts line the streets.”

“I hope he serves them better food than what I had,” Jon said with a slight smile, his eyes once more gazing ahead in the distance, trying to calm his heart pumping in his throat, with little success. Any minute now, their allies would appear in the distance. He still could not believe it.

A roar like thunder filled the sky just when Jon felt that familiar rush of energy bursting in his mind.

“Rhaegal,” he whispered. “Welcome.” The energy calmed somewhat, and Jon looked up. High above them, a dragon circled, before it began to dive. Jon could hear the commotion behind him, could hear Edric’s shout to hold their lines and wait, Yohn Royce blowing some kind of sign of hopefully the same message from his horn. Just a moment, and Rhaegal landed straight in front of them, its eyes on Jon.

“Its name is Rhaegal,” Jon said louder, for Edric and Royce to hear, more to assure them that the dragon posed no threat. In the distance then, he could start to make out riders, just where the two towers of the Twins were barely visible on the horizon. They rode fast, closing the distance in what seemed to Jon mere minutes. They stopped. Dothraki, their leader nodded to Jon, and Jon returned the greeting. He glanced aside to Edric and laughed at the complete disbelief on the man’s face.

“I thought Dothraki would not cross the sea,” Edric said.

“Well, they did, for her,” Jon said nodding.

He tried hard to think to reach Rhaegal, tried to find the dragon in the maze of energy in his mind until suddenly the dragon took flight. It understood him.

He could feel the rhythm, then, like soft tapping. The Dothraki galloped to the side, giving way and view. Two columns were emerging, like two snakes. One was black, Jon could see the spears and helmets and black leather-clad figures of the Unsullied marching orderly. The other was gold, red and gold. Less lances, less power in their march, but orderly regardless. So, it was true.

Unsullied and Lannister marched side by side, closer and closer, until they heard a horn and the columns separated, now marching side ways left and right. What a show, Jon thought, wishing again for Robb to see it. For Bran, and Sansa, and Sam to see it.

The columns stopped less a wide path between them, and more columns marched aside behind the first, then the second. And finally, after what seemed like hours of watching men marching, and perhaps it was hours, Jon could see them.

Daenerys rode beside Jaime Lannister, and Jon chuckled at the sight. Who would believe him THIS? They rode at a distance from each other, each followed by a small party – On Daenerys’ side it consisted of Ser Jorah, the girl from Naath and an unsullied, same as the one who was always around her. On the Lannister side it was just three aging men, looking the exact same in their Lannister armour with lions on their shoulders and red cloaks on their backs.

They were followed by a travel cart – of course Lord Tyrion and Varys would have need for one, Jon reasoned. And behind that, Jon could make out carts, with two rows of unsullied on each side. So that was true, as well. Daenerys mined the dragonglass and brought it to the North. Jon’s heart filled with pride, then shame. Perhaps he misjudged her.

The procession rode past the columns of men, and Jon urged his horse to take a few steps forward as Daenerys and Jaime Lannister stopped in front of him, his eyes searching for the queens, both nodding in acknowledgement and greeting of each other.

“It almost looks like we are no longer needed,” Jaime Lannister remarked, scanning the vale and rose collared white wolf banners before he caught himself and his gaze returned to Jon.

“We meet again,” he said then. “I remember you when you were but a boy.”

“Aye, I remember you as well, Ser. Had more hair, and…” Jon glanced on Jaime’s golden hand, “more hands. Let us hope the one hand you have left isn’t enough to throw little boys out of windows.”

Jaime Lannister flinched. “No, it is not.”

“Good,” Jon said, turning to Daenerys. He opened his mouth to speak, but realised there was nothing to say, nothing that came to mind. So, he just nodded with a smile, surprisingly glad that it was returned.

“Good to see you again, your grace,” Jon finally uttered some words he’d found suitable, and Daenerys’ smile grew wider.

“And you, your grace,” she said softly. “You were greatly missed in Kings Landing, I would admit though.”

“I heard it was a merry gathering even without me,” Jon smiled, “my brooding presence would’ve only dampened the mood.” He looked past her then, to see Lord Tyrion and Varys emerge from their cart, and so he dismounted. Edric, Lord Royce, Davos and Brienne behind him did the same, followed by the Queen and Jaime Lannister and their three advisors each.

“If you would,” Jon gestured to the tent on the far side to the right, silently glad for Edric to have such things as large command tents in his possession. If they win this war, he’s to be made a Lord for all the difference he and his men made today, and their fight hasn’t even begun yet.

They all walked into the tent, past the Dothraki, past the knights of the Vale and all the columns of thousands of soldiers.

Reed had everything prepared, and Jon just realised how much he didn’t know about such things as hosting queens and lords. He walked to the seat at the far end of the round table – another smart idea of Reed, that was – and the others took to theirs. He’s found himself with Jaime Lannister on his left, and the Queen on his right. He felt lost, truly lost.

Jon waited. They all stood behind a seat each, to his amazement all these lords and ladies mixed, and looked to him to sit. He didn’t intend to, not just yet.

A servant stepped to Jon then, holding out a wooden plate in front of him. “Thank you,” Jon whispered as he took it. Tyrion Lannister chuckled as Jon broke a piece of the bread, tucked it into the salt and ate it. He handed the plate to Daenerys, who looked at Jon with wide eyes. Jon nodded.

So Daenerys took the plate, and repeated Jon’s motions, and the plate began its journey around the table, until finally, Jaime Lannister handed it back to the servant.

“Guest right,” Jon began, “is one of the most ancient customs, that still lives in the North.” He glanced at Jaime Lannister then. “I would point at the abandoned twin towers over the Trident to remind you what breaking guest right means in the North, to remind all of us standing here today. The Freys broke theirs against the Starks, and winter came for them and wiped them out altogether.” He took a deep breath, “I offered you guest right upon your entry to my kingdom, and you accepted it. I expect nothing less than the complete honour of the peace among us that breaking bread and salt means at my table. As long as you all hold yourselves to this vow you took, you are under my protection, and under the protection of the North.” Jon saw Tyrion and Varys exchange a glance and his eyes narrowed, as he pulled out his chair and sat, and all sat following him.

The servant returned, with more servants, and the table quickly filled with a roasted piglet and potatoes and sauces and vegetables, wine chalices and jugs.

“Your men are cared for outside, as well,” Jon noted, “We’ve prepared for your arrival as the little time of two days allowed us to, and they shall see no want tonight, albeit it’s merely camp kitchens but I assure you that Lord Edric there brought the best cooks. I know, they fed me the past two days. Albeit, your men may lament the lack of wine. I’d not have drunken soldiers marching around in my kingdom.”

Jaime Lannister chuckled beside him. “I do wonder what your Lord father would say, if he saw you now, your grace,” he said.

“He would say I am an honourable fool,” Jon responded lowly, turning toward Jaime, “who still believes that honour and customs are enough to hold a frail alliance together.”

Jaime nodded as he took to his supper. In his mind, Jon Snow just became his ally, and he was glad, very glad at that, after seeing what surely was not the whole of the Northern army.

“Those banners, they are not the Stark…” He began,

“No, they are not,” Jon said firmly. “That is my army you saw outside, besides that of the Vale.”

‘The boy has an army he calls his own?’ Jamie shook his head in disbelief, before looking up, seeing Daenerys listening intensely. “So where is the rest?”

“Where do you think, my lord?” Jon leaned back in his chair.

“At Winterfell.”

Jon smirked. “No,” he said bitterly, “They are at the wall. This,” Jon gestured at the table, “this is but for a day. Tomorrow, we’ll be war. We all know that men need to rest, and yours have marched for a fortnight to join mine. I cannot allow much, but I am willing to gamble away a day for this. I’ve done the same for the northerners when they left Winterfell for the wall. Tomorrow we begin to fight for our lives – each soul in this camp need to be able to remember what that means.”

Jon took to his supper then, not willing to talk more. He kept glancing at the queen on his right as he ate, but she was in discussion with the girl from Naath and Davos. Jon liked how his men “infiltrated” the groups of their guests – it was something they agreed must be done, else this gathering would be almost useless. Now it seemed, northerners led conversations just about anything, and he could see how the men eased and joined in. Even Lord Varys seemed to be conversing with Edric. Soon this dinner almost became a friendly gathering. Strip away the outside world with all its conflicts, they were only a group of people, after all. Jon, albeit feeling totally out of place, delighted in their success.

Once the table was cleared, Ser Davos laid out a map and handed Jon a basket. Jon stood, and all stood after him. He began to walk around, and chairs were moved back by all to give him way.

He placed a direwolf from the basket on Winterfell, for a start.

“What you see is the North, and the areas of the Real North that were once populated,” he said.

“Once?” One of Jaime Lannister’s commanders.

“Aye, once, but not anymore,” Jon explained, “The last of the freefolk gathered at Hardhome, and were set upon just as we were ferrying them out. There isn’t a living soul north of the wall.”

Daenerys sighed at that, for a moment remembering the settlement and the signs of carnage. And them. Her eyes met Jon’s.

“Your scouting flight revealed something I would’ve never guessed,” Jon said softly, “Thank you.” He placed a figure looking like a skull at Hardhome, and another at the Gorge. Then a crow at Castle black, and for lack of a better one, a mammoth head at Eastwatch.

“There are two armies. What you see is what has been but a moon ago. The dead don’t care about land, they care about the living and there are only three castles manned on the wall. There were two armies marching south. I expected them at Eastwatch, but now I am certain they will hit Castle Black.”

“Why not man all castles?” Tyrion asked genuinely curiously, “Perhaps then their armies would have to break up.”

“I don’t think they would,” Jon reasoned, “They seek a crossing. Small numbers cannot defeat the wall, and the army we face is strong because of its numbers, the footsoldiers they have… it’s not like they have fighting skills, they are easy to kill if one has the weapons to do so. But Lord Tyrion speaks my mind, to a degree. I don’t intend to man all castles, merely those in their path, because we also need to be able to aid them in large numbers.” He placed the northern figurines at the castles, “I’ve sent the houses of the north to each. I’d rather not disperse further, we need to be able to aid each other. I know they will hit Castle Black.”

“Why are you so certain?” Lord Varys raised an eyebrow, raising the question Jon pondered on for the past few days.”

“Because that is where I would hit if my aim is to kill as many as I can, and Eastwatch. Because I fought them at Hardhome, and that makes it obvious that I would expect them at Eastwatch. In truth, Hardhome was long ago – I know not what kept them north of the wall for so long, but perhaps it was the separating of their armies. Their best chance to break through and win meat for their army is Castle Black. I know not what weapons they could muster, spears perhaps. They don’t use arrows, not that arrows could ever reach the top of the wall. They’ll have giants. They’ll have wolves and bears and whatever wild animal you can imagine, they’ll have it. They’ll have mammoths. And they will attempt to climb the wall.”

“Mammoths and giants?” Varys looked at Jon, eyebrows drawn high.

“Climb?” Jaime Lannister asked in disbelief, “That is impossible.”

“It is not impossible,” Jon resolved, “I’ve made that climb, and I am a living breathing man. It is hard, that’s true, but not impossible. For them, who don’t feel, don’t tire, don’t care of falling because they’d just stand and try again, it is much easier to attempt. And Lord Varys,” Jon looked upon the man opposite him, “I trust you believe my words, I have seen mammoths and I have seen giants. They lived north of the wall. Anything that once lived there is now marching in the army of the dead, anyone we could not save.” He turned back to the map and began placing the northern sigils.

“The northern houses sent 500 each to the wall, the rest are at Winterfell or, in the case of Karstark, Umber and Glover, securing their own keeps.” He placed the fist of Glover at Icemark, the lizard of Reed at the Nightfort, the tree of Forrester at Deep Lake, the sun of Karstark at Queensgate, and finally, the direwolf at Castle Black and the chain cross of Umber at Greenguard.

“Before I continue,” Jon sighed. “There are at least five men in this tent who have more experience at drawing battle plans then me. I would like to think that I am not a vain man – if you have something to say, say it. This is an alliance, we fight for our survival.” Jamie Lannister smiled. The boy was smart, and humble, he thought.

“The wall is our best defence and we shall hold on to it with all our might. But the wall cannot be defended by armies. The path atop the wall is narrow, two men walking beside each other take up its width. Ser Jaime, Edric, you both would send 2000 men to aid the castles I manned. Tell them, aid doesn’t only mean fight. They may be put to use in the kitchens for all I know, that is the way at the Nights Watch. Ser Jaime, you’ll have command, save the Lord Commander, Eddison Tollett. Tell him though who you are, he will listen to advice. Tell him I shall follow soon.”

“Edric, you also send a thousand more to Eastwatch, disperse to aid Greenguard if needs be. Then you take the remaining two thousand to the Dreadfort.”

“I’d rename it, your grace, if it please” Edric grinned.

“Aye, rename it if you will, Sansa will like that,” Jon laughed, “The Lady Sansa. Forgive me.”

“I shall rename it Snowfort. See it is manned by Snow and not Dread,” Edric stood proudly and laughed heartily, his eyes on Jon, regardless of how no one else but Jon got the jist of his joke.

“You could rename it Rosefort just as well,” Jon said laughing, “Or the fort of Winter Roses, now that would really please the Lady Sansa.”

“Nay, your grace, Snowfort it is,” Edric grinned, “But I shall gift a whole garden of winter roses one day to the Lady Sansa.”

“Your grace,” Daenerys soft voice beside him dragged Jon back from the chatter, and he tilted his head toward her to listen. “I shall ride north once more to see for certain.”

“No,” Tyrion and Jon said at once, Tyrion loudly protesting while Jon considerably softer, his eyes settling on her. “I don’t want them to know that we know,” Jon explained. “If they see dragons flying overhead, they will know that we know. They may change course. Not to mention the danger.”

“We’ll all be in danger soon enough,” Daenerys countered.

“We will,” Jon agreed, “and you’ll have plenty of opportunity to fly as well as to burn wights, I fear.” He turned back to the map, placing the rose and lion banners where he sent them, and placing the northern banners at their keeps. The lizard he placed at Winterfell, without a word, looking at Howland Reed who nodded.

“I would disperse the unsullied, if you agree,” he turned to Daenerys once more. “I would keep five thousand here,” he placed a spear at Mole’s Town, “and the rest of them here,” he placed another spear at Oakenshield and Woodswatch, “I’ve not had the numbers for this, but with the Unsullied, we could cover the other side of Castle Black.”

He looked up. “Do advise your men on the wall, that fleeing downwards is not always the safest way. Flee to the side, reach the next castle and descend. It was something I kept thinking of when Mance attacked the wall. I thought if they broke through, the tunnel would prevent them from crossing in large numbers at once, they’d still be crossing when one descends at a neighboring castle, and can come up right behind those who crossed, or attack from the side. Something like it. But fleeing downwards always looked like fleeing to death,” Jon looked at Jaime.

Jaime Lannister nodded in silence. “It is a two fronted battle then, as soon as they cross.”

“Three,” Jon corrected. He took a horse and placed it just where the edge of the woods he believed to be, to the right of Mole’s Town. “The Dothraki, here. It’s woodland, it can also hide dragons. And they can aid in Queenstown’s defence, albeit it’s being evacuated.” Jon looked up at Daenerys, who nodded in agreement, then Edric, “I want our cavalry to camp in between, perhaps under Rimegate. I want us to be able to move to whichever direction.”

“Perhaps it would be more considerate to switch places with the Dothraki, your grace,” Ser Jorah spoke up. “Northerners have never seen Dothraki before, Queenstown may feel threatened.”

Jon allowed a quick smile, “I’ve thought of that, but I’ve heard Dothraki speak. I could not send a message to them, if the Queen isn’t with them. Queenstown just have to accept it, after all this is for their defence.”

“I can stay with them,” Jorah said resolutely. Daenerys’ eyes settled on him. “I could translate when the messenger arrives.”

“Will they listen to you?”

“They will,” Daenerys assured. “They will because I will tell them to.”

“This leaves,” Jon stood straight. He used up all the Lannister men, all the unsullied, the Dothraki, and Edric’s force. “This means there is no force left but the one at Winterfell. And the force of prayers.”

“And dragons,” Daenerys noted with a smile, “you forgot about the dragons.”

“I am not used to planning a battle with dragons,” Jon said smiling, “But yes, we should put them to use. If the dead break through, they are the first force offence, I thought. Them burning the dead allows us to group and attack those that slip through the dragon attack.”

“You would place the queen in the front of the battle,” Tyrion said bitterly.

“Lord Tyrion, how do you think I fought my battles?” Daenerys was annoyed, her eyes raging. “You’ve seen it in Meereen, you’ve seen it at Blackwater Rush. This is how it should be.” She turned to Jon and nodded.

Ser Davos began to place banners from the basket Jon laid on the table, and Edric moved to help, placing little figurines to represent accurate numbers on the field.

“Forty thousand men,” Jon said. “Forty thousand men will be on the field against a hundred thousand. But the wall can aid us even if they break through, it will slow them enough, what ever way they find through it.”

“What if they don’t break through?” Jon looked at the Lannister man whose name he didn’t know.

“My Lord, they will break through,” he said lowly, “Let us not convince ourselves otherwise. They will not rest until they break through.”

He sighed. “As soon as you can, burn your dead. Always burn your dead, even if you flee, make sure you do so after you burned your dead. If you don’t, you will likely see them again, and fight them. In the keeps, in the crypts, in cemeteries you may come across – burn the dead, no matter how old, burn them all.”

“How does he do it?” Jaime asked somewhat shaken.

“Some kind of magic,” Jon said, “I don’t know. But it’s effective. I’ve seen him raising his arms and thousands of my fallen rose at that command at Hardhome.”

Jaime shivered at the thought. He stepped back from the table, taking in their solemn faces. They must’ve been imagining what he was imagining, the thought of standing on the battlefield only to see those who fought by your side and fell rise to fight against you. His eyes settled on Jon.

How different he looked, Jaime only registered it just now. He was merely a boy when Jaime last saw him. Arrogant, proud, stupid boy. Yet it was his words that sounded stupid now, the words he spoke to Jon that day of the feast at Winterfell. He watched Jon resting on his arms against the table, studying it as if he could do more. He was no boy. He was a man grown, battle hardened. The scar around his eye, a somewhat thick line from his forehead, through his eyebrow down to his chin spoke volumes of what he could have been through. His face was thoughtful, focused.

“Did you consider…” Jaime began, but swallowed the rest. Yet Jon turned toward him and straightened.

“Speak up, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime stepped close to him. “Did you consider what happens if we don’t defeat them?”

Jon turned back towards the map. Those who heard the question did the same, awaiting his answer, and those who didn’t hear it followed suit to hear what they missed.

“As soon as the wall falls, I will send Ghost to Sansa. It is a sign, for we’ll have no time for ravens and scrolls.” He looked up at Edric, “I’d have your wolves in the Wolfswood, they may like it.” Edric nodded and Jon turned to the map. “All those who can’t fight are being evacuated. Karhold and Deepwood Motte has only fighting force, the Umbers are staggering still. All the refugees are now grouping at Winterfell.”

He looked around the table. “When Ghost arrives, Sansa will know to begin evacuation. She’ll lead them to White Harbor, and we’ll have to make sure to defend them. We’ll have to hold back the dead for as long as we can, so they can escape.”

“Is that why you kept the ships,” Edric asked bemused.

“Aye,” Jon nodded, “If the north falls, we’ll fall back to Winterfell and they fall back to White Harbor. Should Winterfell fall…” Jon sighed. “Should Winterfell fall, they’ll board the ships and sail south. Or Essos. I hear the climate of the hills of Norvos is rather forgiving,” He smiled at Edric who nodded. “Either that, or Dorne, but I would not trust our refugees on a Southern kingdom I know nothing about.”

“Dorne is allied to me,” Daenerys spoke, resolutely.

“WAS allied to you,” Jaime Lannister corrected. “Ellaria Sand is rotting in the black cells under the Red Keep, and knowing the Dornish, they’ve already replaced her. I would agree with the king on this, across the shivering sea is the way. Especially if we cannot hold back the dead, Dorne would only be something of a delay in terms of… you know.”

Jon nodded. “This is where the problem lies,” he said. “If Winterfell falls, the North falls. None of the keeps south of Winterfell will hold for long, merely delay the inevitable. Which we ought to, therefore we’ll fall back to protect White Harbor and the evacuation, and man Castle Cerwyn with whatever we have left. Then Moat Cailin, Greywater Watch” He glanced at Howland Reed who nodded, “the castles in our path should evacuate save their fighting force, and below the Neck I have no right to order them to do so. But even if I did, where to go?”

“South, obviously,” a Lannister spoke.

“Aye, but while we lose our numbers, which will be for the gain of our enemy if we’re not quick enough to burn our fallen, in the end our numbers will diminish. I would presume by the time this chain of events would reach the Trident, we all would be blue eyed corpses marching among the dead, if not a pile of ash. Then who is left to protect the South?”

The sigh that could be heard in the tent was a collective one.

“We must beat them back,” Daenerys whispered.

“No,” Jon said softly, “we must finish them off, all hundred thousand of them.”


	15. The Twins II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: slight Jonerys

“I will write to my sister,” Jaime said, “to the Queen.”

Jon looked not at all amused. “Why are you telling me, I know you’ll write. You’ll report my every move I presume.”

Jaime sighed. “Perhaps I should, but I won’t bother her with battle plans.”

Jon looked at him then, honest surprise in his eyes.

“I am telling you because of what you did at the meeting. You turned guest right to an oath to your very person, and I am sure you’ve noticed that our enemy, the Lannister enemy outnumbers the army that I have.”

“I will not have that bickering on northern soil,” Jon hissed. “The North will get devastated enough without it. And I will not hear of it either, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime nodded. “You don’t fear for your independent kingdom?”

Jon chuckled at that. “If you think of it, Ser - what does it even matter? Why should I bother myself with southern bickering when my country is to be overrun by dead corpses who come to hunt down every last one of my people and make them theirs?”

Jaime smiled at that. He found over the course of this one evening, that he liked the boy. He liked the man that Jon Snow has become. He had everything that was good in Ned Stark, he was straight, spoke his mind and wasn’t afraid to stand by his words. And he was brave, he didn’t cower, Jaime could tell that much. When the dead break through the wall, king Jon will be there to great them at the head of his army. And even before that, Jaime was certain, king Jon will be atop the wall to lead its defence. Jaime had no doubt in the boy. ‘Should stop calling him a boy,’ he thought to himself. Jon Snow was a man grown, and it grabbed at Jamie’s heart to realise what Jon Snow became: He became every bit the man Jaime used to dream of becoming when he was sixteen - the same age as Jon Snow when he first met him, and he was resolved to spend a life in exile at the Wall. Perhaps that was the key, Jaime thought. Perhaps those who never sought it were the best suited to lead, perhaps those who weren’t afraid to mingle in the business of life outside fancy castles and the riches of lordship knew much more about how the world should be ran. Perhaps Jon Snow would make a better king than all others combined, as dangerous as that proposition sounded to him. Cersei was Queen.

“This is why I shall write to the Queen,” Jaime said lowly. “She has the power to evacuate south the Neck, your grace. I’ll ask her to do so.”

Jon sighed. “You don’t believe we could beat them?”

“I believe our chance is as good as it could ever be.” He studied the map once more. “They will try to trick you, thinking you expect them at Eastwatch, they’ll hit Castle Black much harder. Eastwatch will repel them but they are likely to break through at Castle Black, I think your foresight is sound. It is just as sound that the Castle and those atop the wall should evacuate sideways. That the dragons should burn those emerging from under the wall, and once they somehow got past the dragon fire, they’ll face an army standing and waiting in front of them, a prepared army. They won’t be able to emerge in large numbers, and they’ll be hit from behind, from the wall as they engage in the front, and they’ll be hit by cavalry on both sides. It is a plan of annihilation. Their only chance seems to be to retreat, back beyond the wall, if they mean to escape.”

“So you agree with the plan?”

Jaime smiled. “You may be young but you are not new to battle, the scar on your face proves that much. You defeated the Boltons, I presume that had a similarly conceived battle plan.”

“Aye, it did,” Jon sighed. “Though not all of my own making. Sansa was the mastermind behind it.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow and Jon chuckled at his surprise.

“Aye, my sister and her right name won the battle of Winterfell. They call it the Battle of the Bastards, I’m told. It should be called the Battle of the Lady Sansa fooling the Bastards.”

Jon laughed heartily at one more of his own jokes that in truth was never funny, but Jaime laughed as well.

“I pray your grace, do tell,” he asked amidst his laughter, “I’ve not heard a good story in as long as I can remember.”

Jon took a sip from his cup as he stood from his chair.

“We had about two and half thousand, most of the North wasn’t willing to risk the wrath of the Boltons. We mainly had the freefolk. We were here,” Jon pointed at the location. “Ramsay, the Karstarks and the Umbers were here, well equipped footsoldiers with shield and lance, archers and cavalry. We also had some cavalry, but they still outnumbered it to what, 3 to 1?”

Jon smiled. “It was all Sansa’s doing. After council the night before, she came to me. She said, we could have an army of 5000, if I hear her out. You agree my Lord, no man would be inclined to listen to a Lady over a war council, not even their sister. Well, I learned then the lesson that we ought to, when Sansa warned me that I’ll be lured in to the battlefield.”

“How?”

“He’s had our youngest brother. If he sets him loose, I’ll hurry to take him to the safety of our side. That’s what Sansa said, she said Ramsay likes to hunt people, with hounds and archers. So Sansa warned me and that is exactly how it went down,” Jon sighed and Jaime caught glimpse of his fists clenching as he let go of his anger for a moment, “I tried, but I couldn’t save him. And he died in front of me spitting blood, the little brother little more than a toddler when I last saw him.”

Jon shook his head to return to the present. “Anyways, there I was standing alone, here,” he pointed at the middle of the battlefield, “with all of the Bolton cavalry against me, ready to die. And thank the Gods my cavalry caught up with me in time. But it didn’t work just yet, all we had were arrows fired upon us. They fired upon their own men just to get us.”

“Ser Davos then led the charge of the remaining men. Can you believe Ser Davos with his long cloak attire swinging a sword shouting as he runs to the battlefield? I wish I caught sight of it, it must’ve been a sight to behold,” Jon laughed aloud.

“That was enough, they began to encircle us. It happened so fast I was worried I won’t see the light of day. I almost got tramped to death there thinking what an idiotic plan this was, there won’t be enough time.”

“Time for what?”

“For the knights of the Vale to ride to Sansa’s aid from Moat Cailin, and arrive in time. You see, Sansa knew of them, she’s told me she’s had the offer but we agreed to reject it. They were Littlefinger’s force after all, and only a fool would ally themselves with Littlefinger.”

“But on the night before battle we grew desperate enough, I suppose. Sansa’s plan was to plead with Littlefinger to ride through the night, and also with Bronze Yohn Royce for the same in case Littlefinger wasn’t willing. And they rode through the night and straight into battle. Sansa told me later of Ramsay’s face when he realised that he’s just seen his whole army crushed in his own trap.”

“So Littlefinger rode to Sansa’s aid...” Jaime murmured registering the story within himself.

“He didn’t,” Jon said bitterly. “We’ve not known until recently, but it was Bronze Royce who stood his ground and Littlefinger relented. Sansa was right about that, too.”

Jon sat back in his chair. “The snake had the guts to tell me he’s saved me in the battle, after it was won.”

“Where is Littlefinger now? Bronze Royce follows you.”

“Because Sansa rid the Vale of Littlefinger,” Jon said and Jaime could see the pride in his eyes. “Not the southern way. He’s had a trial, for all the shit he’s done that we know of. I’ve heard he begged on his knees. Another sight I’m sad to have missed.”

Jaime sat smiling, recounting in his head what he’s heard as he sipped from his cup. Two youngsters and a plan based on all the crap they endured and what they learned from people like him, like Littlefinger, like Cersei... and they turned the world around. “You make a formidable team, you and Sansa.”

“Aye, Davos tells me all the time,” Jaime watched the smile forming on Jon’s face, the light shining in his eyes as he spoke. “We’ve never been close as children. But when all you have is each other and you’re fighting for your life, you get to know one another. You learn to work together.”

“Didn’t she want to be queen?” Jaime asked before he caught himself, “I am sorry I didn’t mean to, honestly I...”

“It is all right,” Jon interrupted the flow of apologies. “I offered it to her. When they named me, I offered it to her, that I’ll step down and nominate her because she’s a Stark, as much as we knew back then she was the last of the Starks. She refused. Quite adamantly, actually.”

The flap of the tent opened and Daenerys stood at the entrance, her smiling face turning into that of surprise and doubt.

“Your Grace,” both men stood, and Jaime made to leave swiftly.

“Write to your sister, Ser Jaime,” Jon called after him and Jaime nodded to Jon, then the Queen, and rushed out of the tent as swiftly as he could. His mind was racing. His last half hour with the King in the North called for re-evaluation. Not just of what he’s heard, but more, much more. It amazed him sometimes. Families that bind you to the deeds of your ancestors, your father, your brothers and sisters, and you live in an invisible cage of boundaries you could never cross. Tyrion crossed them and where did that get him? It handed him a crossbow and drove him into exile, his only chance to see home again being the support of the enemy of the family he belonged to. And Jaime? The golden lion caged in his armour, he was happier than ever before in his life in those few days he’s been someone else, anyone else but Jaime Lannister travelling the Riverlands with Brienne. He made his way across the countless tents, wondering about the man he’s become. Perhaps Jon Snow was lucky, he’s never had the shackles of the family name tying him to anything. Jaime wondered about the king, about the truth that he was glad to follow his command, about the dread that it took a hundred thousand dead men to kill for him to feel like he’s doing something honourable, for once in his life. He made his way through the tents to find Brienne. The letter to Cersei could wait, he wasn’t looking forward to finding the words to warn her about the threat and convince her to evacuate, without sharing any more detail, because he knew already that he won’t. He won’t betray Jon Snow. But he needed a friend now, who could understand. Brienne could understand, she always saw through these facades and was never based by them. Yes, Brienne would understand.

Daenerys didn’t move from the entrance, wondering if she should turn around.

“What was that about?” She asked, her voice cooler than she hoped it to be.

“The battle for Winterfell,” Jon said, his eyes measuring the Queen and her reaction. “Ser Jaime asked how we won back the North, that is all.”

“That is all?”

Jon stood and poured wine in a cup, then walked to her and handed it into her hand. “Yes, That is all. I’ve said so enough for you to believe your grace, I don’t care about your business with the Lannisters. You are here and they are here and as much as I can tell I should be thankful for that, and not treat either of you differently from the other. Neither of you has my support in your bickering, and you won’t hold to that bickering while on northern soil.”

Daenerys sighed, her expression softened. “I’ve not known what the bread means.”

“Aye, I’ve seen that,” Jon’s voice was soothing as he turned and sat back in a chair. He pulled out the one next to him and gestured for her to sit.

“This is Westeros, your grace,” he said softly, “and it is not Essos. We are different people, different customs. Different values. And we do have free will, for better or worse.”

Daenerys sighed. “I’ve not come to repeat the same argument.”

“And I’m not telling you to argue,” Jon said, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m telling you because it seems to me that your advisors have forgotten to tell you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Daenerys shuffled on the chair, until she turned it so she could face Jon Snow as they sat.

“I mean, wherever I go, Davos keeps going on about people and customs and keeps telling me to look at things from others’ point of view,” Jon said, gazing into his cup. “If someone like Davos advised you, you would’ve known not to demand my bending the knee the moment you met me. Not to detail lengthily all those titles and all that has befallen you, to make me to. To try to see it from my perspective, that whatever you can reason with, what ever you lived through, I can tell you the equivalent. And I can tell you this because Ser Davos counselled me to clarity. You see?”

“My advisors prepare me, they did what they could to prepare me to meet with Jaime Lannister and they did the same to prepare me to see you again. Take this whole evening for example, I’ve had very little in the planning of it. Yet if you thought that it was coincidence that you found Ser Davos next to you, you were wrong. This was meticulously planned, for three groups of people who don’t like one another to share a meal and converse, and perhaps realise that they could be civilised around each other.”

“I don’t see your advisors doing the same. I’m sure they tell you what to do and what not to do, they tell you things they know. But from where I stand, I see a Queen who could. I’ve told you as much on the beach of Dragonstone, you asked me what I think and I said, the people who follow you do so because they believe in you, because they think you can make things happen and change this shithole of a world we live in. But you surround yourself with the very people who made this shithole happen, who benefited from it while they could, and when they couldn’t they ran to hide behind your skirt. I wouldn’t think that a dragon needs such shackles.”

Dany felt her cheeks burn while listening to him. She wanted to be angry, she really did. But his voice was so soft, so soothing, his eyes were so honest, that she couldn’t.

“I am not a man of words, your grace,” Jon said then, “I am sorry if I overstepped my boundaries and offended you now. Offended you again. It wasn’t my intention.”

“I know,” she whispered, as she laid a hand on his on the table, rather unconsciously, only realising as their skin touched and the relief that it brought rushed through her. “You speak your mind, I respect that. So speak your mind.”

Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Tell me your grace, what would you have me do,” she said lowly, “tell me how to get what I want.”

“That depends on what it is that you want, your grace.”

“Let’s see,” Daenerys smiled softly, “I want to defeat the dead, I want the North to see that I am fighting beside you. I want you to see. And I want what is mine.”

“The Iron Throne?”

She nodded, her eyes firmly locked on his. “Will you support me, your grace?”

“Gods,” Jon whispered. “That ‘your grace’ is getting really tedious, doesn’t it? I ‘your grace’ and you ‘your grace’, can’t we just speak as two people? It’s just Jon. Your clever advisors aren’t here to make their clever faces about it.”

“What would your clever advisors make about it?”

“A grin, probably,” Jon laughed silently, “but I am not one for fancy titles. It doesn’t sit as easy with me as it does with you.”

“Would you support me, Jon?” She asked and she felt the warmth at speaking that name, and she closed her fingers around his hand as much as her little hand allowed.

“I don’t know”, he answered, “truly, I don’t.”

Jon sighed. “The North never bode well when mingling in the business of the South. We are a bit like... hermits. We are stubborn folk and we like our ways, isolating ourselves, we like our ways of life and our customs and our wild lands. Whenever we involved ourselves in such business we never came out of it better than we went in. See, this knee bending business. The North sustained itself for what, 8000 years with internal trade and trade with Essos. Then came Aegon and his dragons and the North bowed. Internal trade reduced, trade to the south increased, but when winter came it made the North more dependant. They couldn’t prepare and in the harshest of winter they starved. They lived on aid. Although I must add it wasn’t just the Targaryens. We’ve had a Stark once who wanted to see what laid outside Westeros for himself. He duly endowed his lordship on his son and sailed away, never to return. His son burned the whole of the northern fleet in his grief, now that wasn’t helpful in trade with Essos, either.”

“You see, northmen are foolish, proud idiots. Take me as an example with my bread and salt going around the table where every person has reason to kill at least three others. The Lannister’s would be eager to slay you and your Essosi, almost as much as they would Varys, your people would slay them just the same and possibly me and mine as well if I tried to stop them, while my people would be just as eager to slay you both. And I’ve talked of guestright and protection as if the one man that I am could do anything if these armies outside decided to slaughter each other tomorrow morning.”

“Does that trouble you?”

“Aye, although I’m fairly drunk to feel the weight of it.”

“I guessed as much,” she said with a grin, “Were you sober, you’d not speak this much, I bet you’d not speak to me this much in a whole moon.”

Jon laughed loud at that, as he watched her gaze leaving his and settling on the map.

“I want to attack them when they attack the wall, burn them on the northern side.”

“I know,” Jon said. “It’s in your blood. But I rather we didn’t reveal to them that you’re here, and surprise them. Let them cross and as they do, we burn them all.”

She nodded with a smile, as she stood. “You must rest, Jon,” she said coyly “you’d not want drunken armies march around your kingdom, but if you don’t sleep this off there’ll be a drunken king marching around your kingdom.” With that she’s turned to leave.

“Thank you, Dany.” He said and she turned, frozen in surprise. “For not trying to convince me.”

“Dany...” she said, her eyes trailing off. “Who was the last person who called me that? My brother? Not the company you’d want to keep.”

“All right then, perhaps,” Jon whispered and her heart skipped a beat, “perhaps it is time to give the name a new meaning.”

She gave him a last silent laugh at that, feeling the urge to leave. She stepped out to the cold winds and stood for a moment, taking a deep breath, wishing away the warmth in her, the tingling in her palm that she still felt where her skin touched his. But truly, she wasn’t really wishing it away. She smiled to herself, at ease with herself as she walked to her tent in the company of her guards.

Jon gazed into the cup that he’s emptied in one go as soon as the flap closed behind her. ‘You fool,’ he thought to himself. ‘What are you doing exactly?’


	16. Winterfell II / I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: slight Jonsa

Jon would’ve never thought just how much consideration goes into an army march. A march of four armies. Five armies, to be exact.

He was returning the knights of the Vale to Winterfell, to protect the castle and Wintertown as it housed the thousands of refugees from all over the North. He was to ensure Jaime Lannister reaches the wall with his army intact, at the same time making sure the Lannister forces passed Winterfell without paying a visit. That should be easy enough, he thought, they just turn at the crossroad outside Winterfell. But nothing was ever easy.

Lannister and Unsullied and Dothraki was once more to march together as north as the wall, save a thousand unsullied for the Queen’s protection who was determined to stop at Winterfell and nothing could sway her. That made Jaime Lannister almost as determined. Jon had to have a quiet word with Davos, who had to have a quiet word with Ser Jaime to convince him that the North would take to his presence on northern soil much more easily if he’s already fought for them, considering the Lannister crimes against the North being that more recent compared to the Targaryens, and when that didn’t work Davos simply declared that Jaime should see how Jon is separating a commander from her armies to ensure he’ll see no trouble. There’ll be no Queen to demand an attack on his forces, and no dragons to burn his men. That finally did the trick.

Jon struggled with this all, truly, and his pounding headache didn’t help. Edric kept grinning at him, lamenting how he’s now seen something the King isn’t good at: drinking. Davos kept shaking his head, Lord Reed and Bronze Royce just made their frown faces at him all morning, the latter possibly because he’s caught Jon retching behind the royal tent after he woke. Not the sight a commander wishes to give his men. Jon knew that as much as he won their respect in the past few days, perhaps weeks, he’s also lost a good amount of it now. The drunken business really had to stop.

But it was so good. It was good to erase all his worries, and nightmares didn’t come either, there was no Night King, no Ramsay, no countless wights surrounding him and pulling him under, no dragonfire burning him. In truth his dream last night was of a completely different kind, the kind that forced him to take the matter in his own hand when he woke. His mind kept trying to remember who it was he loved so passionately in his dream, that when he woke he could almost taste her on his tongue. But albeit the memories of what he did to her were almost as vivid as if they truly happened, he couldn’t recall her face, so he just reasoned the dream with his mind seeking relief and escape.

Finally they were on the road once more. It must’ve been midday at the least and the sun was as high as it would get at this time in winter. They managed to agree that the knights of the Vale would ride ahead, and that each army was to march intact and with its own commanders, with Jon and his newly renamed and restyled White Wolf army leading the way. His cavalry also served as protection of the marchers, on two sides as they progressed, but Jon wondered about it, the only threat these man really needed protection from was themselves and each other. The lions of Lannister followed the White Wolves, and the Targaryen forces closed the procession, closely guarding their forty crates. Daenerys wasn’t having any reason to allow anything else, she was hard set on delivering them to Winterfell herself with her thousand Unsullied. The Dothraki led by Ser Jorah closed the extremely lengthy procession.

It must’ve been a sight to behold. Refugees and villagers who they encountered quite regularly all left the road with their carts in haste and watched for hours with awe in their eyes as they marched past. Some cheered to see them, those who knew more of the threat cheered even to see Lions and Essosi with them, wishing them good fortune again and again. Jon was glad, very glad to hear that, even if most northerners just stared at the unusual force he led with doubt and suspicion in their eyes. One thing was the same. They cheered for him. He’s been Blessed by the Gods so many times these past days that he could’ve been declared a saint himself, he was handed flowers, and gifts so much so that Davos had to procure additional saddlebags to stock them while they travelled. On the second day he began to ask the children that they give the flowers to the foreign ladies behind in the procession, for the ladies liked them very much. He was glad to see that it worked once they camped, to see Missandei and Daenerys both holding bouquets of winter roses and the like, and both seemed to be happy with them, so Jon was happy.

He kept sending Edric back to arrange men to help the carts that the people dragged off the road, and help the folk on their way once more. By the end of the second day, Edric has decided that it was no worth riding back and forth and stayed behind. So it happened that Jon rode without Edric for most of their journey, but with the same headcount. His company also included a new member, and with him, a new set of worries.

Davos brought a boy named Gendry from Kings Landing, said to be a well trained smith who learned the trade under some famous Essosi that in truth Jon has never heard of. But the boy had a look at the dragonglass before being introduced to Jon, and claimed that he could work it, given the proper tools. Good. Except it wasn’t - the boy was eager for Jon to know that he was in fact Robert Baratheon’s bastard. As if they needed a Baratheon among their ranks. It was clear that Davos counselled the boy to keep this to himself, somewhat weary of how Jon will react. So there was the task for Jon of assuring Davos that Jon can’t care less, honestly - and he didn’t, personally. What if the boy is a Baratheon bastard? It’s not like he’ll stand tomorrow and state he’s the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, is it? That’s what Jon said to Davos only to realise that it was he who could do that any day he wished, and from that perspective, the boy presented a problem. But then again, he’s had a Lannister and a Targaryen problem already within the borders of his Kingdom - considering that a Lannister sat on the Iron Throne and the Targaryen demanded that same throne, truly the boy seemed to be almost nothing at all. Icing on the cake Jon felt he’ll soon be forced to eat.

It took five long days to reach the crossing outside Winterfell where the Kingsroad turns toward the wall, and Jon sat on his horse now waiting, watching as the Wolves - he quickly grew to like to refer to them as that - took the road toward Castle Black. The train of men reached miles ahead by the time the last Lannister turned behind them towards the same direction. Jaime Lannister and Edric both dismounted, so Jon felt the need to do the same.

Suddenly, Edric draw his sword and for a moment Jon panicked - but it was for nothing. The man merely sunk to one knee in front of him, his sword in front.

“Your Grace,” he said, loud and clear for all to hear as Jaime, Daenerys and all their posse watched in amazement, “Our swords are yours. Our lives are yours. We shall serve you well and true. The White Wolves will roar upon the wall and along the hills as far south as the Snowfort, and as south as needs be until all your enemies are defeated. I promise you, you’ll be the the King of a victorious North when our roaring ceased. By the Old Gods and the New, we serve you King Jon, The King we choose, the King in the North!”

And the Wolves roared at that, swords in the air like true northerners, shouting, “The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!”

It didn’t make Jon feel proud. It clenched at his heart knowing that he’s sending these men to their deaths, and their willingness, even eagerness to die for him didn’t make it any easier. As he stepped close to Edric and reached out his hand for him to stand, he wondered if there were even words to describe the gratitude he felt.

He unbuckled the warhorn from his belt and handed it to the still kneeling Edric.

“My Lord, I’ve come to know you as a good friend and a good man, of sound advice and honour,” he said, hoping his voice was just as clear and confident as he intended it to be. He looked around the men. “And you all,” he shouted, “You are men of the North! Go and defend the North! Give those dead fuckers what they deserve!”

The men roared once more in laughter and cheer, as he turned back to Edric, holding out the horn that he’s still not taken from Jon’s hand. “Take this horn, Lord Edric, for you shall need it to command my army. And you shall duly deliver it back to me when you’ve completed your mission. You go as a commander of my army. Return to me with your mission complete and you’ll return as the Lord of Snowfort. Or whatever you wish to call it.”

Those who heard it were by now out of their minds, jumping and shouting of joy, to Jon’s complete disbelief.

“This wasn’t necessary,” he whispered as he helped up his commander.

“Aye, it was,” Edric grinned. “It was because I wanted these fuckers to see how we adore our King. I’ve heard stories about them carrying that Targaryen girl on their shoulders shouting Mhysa and whatnot. I wanted them to know. And I wanted the Lannister dogs to know.”

Jon noted his words with a smile. “I wish you good fortune, Edric,” he said softly.

“And you, Your Grace,” And they both mounted and turned toward the direction they meant to depart in, until Edric turned to him once more.

“Your Grace,” he called out. “It was also good for you confirmed what I thought you promised me before. But that you called me friend, that is what means the most to my aging heart, more than any lordship.”

Jon nodded, touched by his words, but he continued.

“You’ll be a great king, Jon. The greatest king that ever lived, mark my words.” With that Edric turned and rode past the columns of happy men. Jaime Lannister nodded to Jon and followed suit, and Jon watched them disappear frozen on his horse trying to make some sense of what he’s just been told.

***

“It was,” Daenerys began, searching for words, “Powerful.”

“It was unnecessary,” Jon turned to her with a slight smile. They were galloping at the head of a thousand unsullied and forty crates, a far cry from the wast army procession from a mere hour ago. “You would say that,” Dany smiled, “but the truth of it is that it is needed. Men who go to fight and die, and men who go to make change happen do need to be inspired.”

“I’ve heard your men carried you on their shoulders.”

“Not my men, the slaves who freed themselves while my army stood still outside the walls of Yunkai,” she explained, watching Jon from the corner of her eyes. “We catapulted our collars into the city. They saw them and removed their own. I didn’t free them, Jon. They took that chance and freed themselves and proved that the few in power can do very little when the masses rise. Similarly to the North, I presume. When the North proclaims a king and an independent kingdom, what could any ruler do in the south?”

“March to the north to crush a rebellion.”

Daenerys thought about it for a moment before she replied. “But she didn’t. I suppose you owe me a thank you for that, see that Cersei was too busy with me to pay attention to you.”

Jon chuckled. “I owe you thanks for many things, Dany.”

Dany smiled at him the warmest smile he’s ever seen from her, “Yes, Jon, you do.”

***

Sansa stood in the courtyard wondering what to make of this all. She’s kept wondering this past two days, ever since Bronze Royce arrived back at Winterfell with his knights. They had Lannisters, Jaime Lannister was at the wall. They had Dothraki, whatever that meant, at the wall. They were to see unsullied soldiers soon enough. And there was a whole army now, larger than any of this other three, bearing Ghost on their banners. It was like one of those dreams when it’s so confusing, so unbelievable that you just realise deep in your sleep that you’re dreaming, this can’t be reality. Except Sansa didn’t wake.

Jon was coming home and the castle was buzzing, Sansa could hear the smallfolk chatter about the king’s return, the rumours of armies of thousands marching on the Kingsroad, of Lannister’s marching under the command of the King in the North. It was a somewhat nice change from their usual chatter about their king, how handsome he was, and how brave he was, and how he’ll protect them from the dead and from the mad Lannister Queen who blew up the great sept. The people were excited, hopeful, they went about their business with smiles on their faces like Sansa has not seen ever since Jon opened a wooden crate in the courtyard of Winterfell and declared that they’ll defend the North and he’ll lead them. They loved Jon, and as much as Sansa could tell, they loved her. Arya was happier as well, so much so that she even offered to train her the day before. It wasn’t the best idea, Sansa thought as she could feel the dull ache of every purple patch she gained on her limbs for it.

So, she stood in the courtyard, Arya on one side and Bran on the other, and waited, with the lords and ladies of the North behind her. They knew it was time, it was hard to miss as three dragons flew past above Winterfell just as the small column emerged on the road in the distance.

Sansa wondered how to go about greeting the Dragon Queen. Jon has pulled the bread and salt trick and it worked, so Bronze Royce counselled Sansa to do the same, to bind these proud lords and ladies behind her. He’s told her that the Dragon Queen was rather petite and comely, and as much as he could tell, quiet and resolute, and quite eager to ride her dragons into battle against the dead. Royce also assured her that Jaime Lannister was sent straight to the wall and will pass Winterfell, with Edric. Sansa was sorry about the latter. The strange Essosi-northerner with the big words brought a certain charm to Winterfell in his short time here as Jon’s semi-captive assurance, but now that he’s delivered on his promise to the king, he’s had to be put to use. Sansa has offered the Dreadfort to Jon as payment, and was glad to hear it was to be renamed, albeit in truth she wanted nothing to do with it. She wondered if the Dragon Queen expected a similar payment for her services of aid. Of course she did. She expected the North on its knees most likely, and Northerners down south fighting her wars for her like her Essosi did. Her thoughts of wondering what the Dragon Queen will be like were cut off by none other than the Dragon Queen herself.

She rode by Jon’s side through the gate, and Jon quickly dismounted and rushed to Sansa. She held him close, for perhaps a moment too long, before Arya. Sansa noted to herself that she wasn’t alone in holding on to Jon’s bearhug for too long, with a little relief. Sansa glanced aside. Jon’s gaze followed hers, then the Queen’s did too and she laughed, silently. With that wide laugh she stepped next to Jon as Jon nodded to Sansa with approval.

The servant rushed in with a large plate and this time, Daenerys knew what to do, confidently, with the same smile on her face. She watched as the plate went around, first her company, then along the three rows of people behind this tall auburn haired woman and the short black haired girl who was dressed more like a boy. Finally, the empty plate returned to the servant.

Daenerys felt the auburn haired girl’s eyes settle on her, before they trailed off to settle on Tyrion for a moment. ‘Sansa Stark’, Daenerys noted to herself, allowing a moment to admire the beauty and grace of the auburn haired woman.

Jon stepped past and Sansa and Arya turned to watch as he stepped in front of those standing in the courtyard.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, his voice stern, “I come from White Harbor where I accepted the fealty of an army of 10000 Northerners returning home to join our fight, and from The Twins, where I accepted the alliance of Jaime Lannister” - the booing that erupted caused Daenerys to shiver in an instant, panic at what reaction her name will generate, but Jon swallowed and continued.

“Where I accepted the ALLIANCE of Jaime Lannister and 6000 men, who just now are marching north to defend the wall. I’ve also accepted the alliance and aid of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, who brought 5000 riders and 8000 footsoldiers to our aid, as well as forty crates of dragonglass and three dragons.”

They were silent, and Daenerys was thankful, oh so thankful for not being booed like Jaime Lannister.

“My Lords! I would not have any of you ever portraying such offence as you did to me just now when I spoke of Jaime Lannister. Not against Ser Jaime, and not against Queen Daenerys or her advisors. For they are all here to fight OUR battles, for OUR land, for OUR kingdom! For an independent North!”

They cheered at that, swords in the air just like the soldiers on the road, they shouted “The King in the North! The King in the North!”

“Enough of the cheering, we have work to do,” Jon said more softly now, and the cheer died out rather swiftly. “There’ll be a council tomorrow midday. I’ll see you all then.” With that the little group dispersed, and Jon turned back to Sansa, walking back to stand beside her.

“Queen Daenerys, allow me,” he gestured toward the Queen then Sansa, “to introduce you to Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.” Sansa tried her best to smile, it shouldn’t be so hard after Jon’s declaration of independence, but she knew she’ll fall short of Jon’s expectations, even if his hand on her back assured her that this was all right.

“Your Grace,” Sansa courtseyed properly and deeply, “The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, your grace, welcome.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said with a smile. She didn’t miss the cold look in Sansa’s eyes.

Jon’s other hand went to rest on Arya’s shoulder, “and Arya Stark.”

Arya bowed her head slightly. She didn’t even attempt to smile.

Jon was surprised, everyone could tell, to see that Bran was nowhere to be seen, disappeared from the yard, before he shrugged it off. Bran was odd, very odd.

“We had your chambers prepared and baths drawn for you, I trust you would like to rest after your long journey north,” Sansa said then, gesturing toward Arya. Daenerys nodded and followed the girl, and soon it was only Jon and Sansa in the yard.

“I would’ve hoped we can muster a proper greeting,” Jon said with eyebrows drawn high, in resolve that it wasn’t meant to be. He looked at Sansa with a grin on the edge of his mouth. “You were good though. I’ve never seen you courtsey so deep.”

“She’s too short,” Sansa shrugged, “so I thought perhaps a deeper courtsey is in order for her to see it.”

Jon laughed aloud at that and Sansa finally allowed herself to join in.

“Independent north?” She asked after a moment or two.

“Aye, independent North. Davos was loud about it in Kings Landing and none challenged it in the end.”

Sansa sighed. “Don’t trust Cersei, Jon.” She tucked her hand in his arm, and they began to walk into the keep.

“I don’t trust any of them,” Jon said softly, “If I did, they’d know who I am. I don’t need to trust them, I have you for that.”

“Have a bath first,” Sansa smiled, “we’ve had a small feast prepared. You and I could talk in the solar after supper, perhaps...”

Jon nodded as they reached the corridor of doors where he’d depart, and turned to leave.

“Jon,” Sansa called after him, and he turned, “Its good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home,” he smiled before he disappeared in his chambers, hoping the baths-drawn comment applied to him as well - after all there had to be something good in being King in the North.

***

“The accommodation does leave a lot to desire,” Varys said nonchalantly as he gazed out the window of the chamber he was now sharing with Tyrion.

“I don’t see reason for complaint,” Tyrion countered. “After the travel cart for three weeks, I feel we’re being treated to the royal chambers!”

“That is because you don’t need much room,” Varys shrugged.

“Let us talk,” Tyrion’s happy mood was unphased by this chatter. He took the jug of wine and poured a cup before he settled lounging on his bed. “We’ve not talked for the most of this past five days! I’ve began to wonder whether you’re a eunuch or a mute. Perhaps king Jon took your tongue while I was looking away...”

Varys shot an annoyed look at Tyrion. “Who’d want to talk with northern riders just outside the cart.”

“Who, indeed,” Tyrion sipped from his cup. “But I don’t see them here? Winterfell’s walls are ancient stone, they have heard worse than anything you could say.” Tyrion chuckled at that. “Hmmm, according to some, there’s even magic in these walls. Did you know that the very same Bran the Builder built Winterfell who built the wall itself? With all its magic spells and stories...”

“What makes you so happy, my friend?” Varys asked suddenly, the idle talk of magic unceasing him even more, “is it that you’ve seen your lady wife once more?”

“You forget that she is not my Lady wife. I’ve signed some paper, and King Jon annulled the marriage.”

“She could be, if Queen Daenerys decides that King Jon’s decision on the matter wasn’t the proper one...”

“And WHY would she decide such a thing...” Tyrion sat up once more, facing the Spider, with a grin on his face.

“Let’s say, King Jon perishes in battle, which you have to admit has a certain likelihood,” Varys began to explain, “his kingdom will be left to Sansa...”

“You forget the little brother, my friend.”

“No, I don’t,” Varys countered. “My little birds assured me that the boy could never be king. Not because he’s a cripple but because he’s seemingly lost his mind. A seeer it is said. Three eyed raven he calls himself.”

“And so your plan is to sit here, and wait for the news that the king perished,” Tyrion remarked bitterly, “so you can whisper in the queen’s ear how to bring the North back to the fold by reinstating my sham marriage to Sansa Stark, and then I would bend the knee and... the North is back to being one of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Oh we will sit here, my friend, whether we plan it or not. This, is a mere possibility.”

“Are there any other... possibilities?” Tyrion felt that he didn’t like this conversation. Why couldn’t the Spider be content, ever? After all, things were going admirably. Yes, the queen planned to ride her dragon into battle, Tyrion didn’t like that, but he knew better than to fight it. Everything else was falling into place like some well constructed plan, life was doing them favour after favour. When they defeat the dead, the whole of Westeros will hail Queen Daenerys the Targaryen who rode dragons into battle against the dead and saved this desolate place of a Kingdom, and the North will be thankful, and king Jon, so very bound to his honour, will have no choice, really. By the Gods, the people may even demand it, one can never know the will of the people enough to foretell.

“Well, say the king does not perish in battle,” Varys tilted his head to the side, which told Tyrion to pay attention. Important information forthcoming. “And hopefully returns relatively unscathed. There is a different marriage I had in mind.”

“I didn’t know you’ve had my well-being so much at heart.”

“Not for you, my friend, although you know how much I care for your wellbeing, I truly do,” Varys fiddled with his cloak as he spoke, “A royal marriage is what I have in mind.”

Tyrion sipped from his cup registering what he’s heard.

“And what makes you think that the Queen would agree? That the King would agree? He’d tie his kingdom to Targaryen rule by marriage just when it shook off the last of its shackles. Even the knee-bending would cause fewer roars of the Wolves.”

“Yes, That roar was as loud and clear a message, as any,” Varys remarked, “his own Essosi love him that much is clear.”

“Essosi?” Tyrion lowered the cup.

“Yes my friend, Essosi,” Varys explained with a slight smirk, “the Company of the Rose, returning to the kingdom they once left because Torrhen Stark bent the knee. You see, knee bending would cause much more roaring of the Wolves than a love match.”

“So What makes you think they would agree?”

“What makes me think so, indeed what could it be,” Varys pretended to ponder, “perhaps the Queen’s late night visit to the King at the Twins? Or was it that they call each other by first name? Or perhaps the fact that this war will desolate the North, and make it dependent on southern aid if they don’t want to starve and freeze this winter.”

“Let’s say you are right,” Tyrion said, nodding his cup toward Varys. “It isn’t a bad idea. He has an army of what, fifteen thousand, at his back? And the support of the North. Him by her side would make them a formidable couple that could make my sweet sister shiver with fear - if that’s possible at all. But there’s a slight problem.”

Tyrion noted to himself with triumph that he’s caught Varys’ attention, knowing then that this was the plan Varys aimed to achieve. One he’ll snip in the bud. “It is but a slight problem, but being born into a great family I can tell you, it is a problem that sadly has no resolution.”

“And what is that problem?”

“The boy is a bastard.”

***

“I am truly glad you’re back, Jon,” Sansa said as she handed him the horn and sat back beside him by the fire, taking his sewing into her lap.

Jon sipped and..

“Seven Hells, woman!” He spit out the warm liquid. “What is this?”

“A kind of tea that old Nan used to make me when I was cold,” Sansa shrugged. “I’ve added some honey for you. You ought to cut back on the wine, Jon.”

“Aye, I do, but this...” Jon smelled the liquid with disgust on his face, “this is drastic. Are you trying to punish me?”

Sansa laughed, and Jon laughed with her. Her laughter was so carefree, so warming, it was impossible not to.

“You would deserve that, based on what Bronze Royce told me.”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“That you’re having late night drinking sessions with Jaime Lannister, and visits from the Queen.”

“Had. Once.” Jon sipped from the cup once more, doing his best to swallow without tasting the tea. “Let us agree, I drink this poison and we won’t speak about any of it.”

“We ought to speak about them,” Sansa tilted her head towards Jon, watching him from the corner of her eye, as she took to her sewing once more.

“No we are not,” Jon put down the horn and knelt in front of Sansa. “In two days I’ll be off to the wall, Sansa. Jaime Lannister is already off to the wall. Daenerys will be off to the wall. There’ll be a battle sooner or later, and it may...”

Sansa’s fingers on his mouth stopped him then.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she whispered. “I know it, and I don’t want to hear it. Can we pretend that you’re not going to ride off to die?” Her eyes were overflowing with worry, with love, with desperation, so much so that Jon could feel his heart twist at the sight.

Jon sighed. “What is the use? What is the use of pretending that everything is all right?”

“What do you think keeps me from worrying myself sick while you are gone?” She asked softly, “I pretend everything is all right. You sail to dragonstone and I pretend. You ride to White Harbor and I pretend. Your ride to greet our enemies, the very people who tried to destroy us and would try to rule over us, and I pretend it is all right. Because you promised to return. Because Sam says you always come back. Why do you need to be at the wall? Jaime Lannister is there, Edric is there, the Nights Watch is there. You’re not needed there. You’re needed here.”

Jon smiled a sad smile for her as his hand reached her chin, and she tilted her head into the touch. “Because I am the king,” he said. “Because we cant have others fighting our battles for us.”

“But,” Sansa began but Jon’s thumb on her lips forced the words to stay unspoken.

“Because you want me to one day proclaim who I am, I know you do,” he whispered, “and if that day ever comes, and I fear it will, I’ll need them to know what kind of man I am. I can’t sit here and wait while they fight and expect them to follow me with that name.”

“So you’re planning on coming back alive,” she whispered and Jon could see the begging in her sea blue eyes that she didn’t allow her voice to portray.

“Of course I do,” he smiled, “I promised I’ll protect you, how could I do that from beyond the grave? I doubt my blue eyed corpse marching among them could fulfill that promise.”

“Jon.”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling.

“That was not funny,” Sansa hissed, but her eyes were calmer now. He stood and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“No, it was not,” he whispered into the kiss, looking straight into her eyes as he parted from her, “Do not worry so much. You’re much more beautiful when you don’t worry.”

He planted another quick kiss on her forehead and left her, walking to the door. “Goodnight, Sansa.” Ghost raised his head but a glance from Jon and the Wolf returned to his slumber. He opened the door and left.

“Sleep well, Dragonknight,” Sansa whispered after him.


	17. Winterfell II / II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonsa

Jon sat at the high table, Sansa on his right, Daenerys on his left. He waited patiently for the chatter to stop in the hall, occasionally glancing at Davos, at Lord Reed. He didn’t glance to the left side of the table, Lord Tyrion and Varys sat there.

After leaving Sansa’s solar last night Jon spent a considerable time wondering about these two. The Tyrion Lannister he’s met was a fair man, perhaps a bit sarcastic but if Jon was half the size he is, he concluded, he’d be smaller than Tyrion and then he’d also be just as sarcastic, if not more so. The Tyrion who he saw again on Dragonstone was different, more of an enigma. Yes, they greeted each other with a banter, and yes, Tyrion tried to chat with him informally, but it all ended as soon as he reached the throne room. Jon felt it never recovered since. And he felt that the only change was him, Jon asserting himself as king. So he’s concluded that it was a problem in Tyrion’s eyes, or more likely, the problem wasn’t his kingship, it was that his mandate of kingship omitted knee-bending. It felt like a loss to Jon, a character he’s remembered fondly from his first days at Castle Black thus turning into nothing more than a burden to him. He hoped that one day that could still change, but he couldn’t see how it ever could.

Varys was a different story altogether. Jon only heard of Varys before, from Sansa, his own experience on Dragonstone counted very little in knowing the man called Spider. He truly didn’t know what to expect, and he found the man sly and sneaky, of few words out in the open into someone’s face, and that bothered Jon. He assigned that to the fact that he was of the North, after all he was raised here according to the values of the North. Varys on the other hand, wherever he was born and raised, made a career for himself in the south by spying out other people’s secrets and twisting them, using them to gain advantage. Then he sold that advantage to the highest bidder for as much as Jon could tell. The very thought of it made the hair stand on Jon’s arms, it made his skin crawl. The least time he’s had to spend around Varys, the better, and he had absolutely no intention to change that, no hope that he would ever see reason to change that.

His eyes settled on Howland Reed once more. He’s broken his fast with Reed this morning, apologising for his behaviour on the road, and Reed laughed it off. His old companion and newest advisor told Jon that in many ways he was still a boy. He’ll grow just as he’s grown, it does not happen overnight and even when he finished growing he’ll make stupid decisions time and again, he’ll behave like the boy he was. That was refreshing to hear, if not just a bit disheartening. Reed asked him if he plans to reveal his secret, and Jon told the truth, he didn’t know. And Reed also told Jon the truth, that he’ll have no choice in it. That he’s brought Lannister and Targaryen to the North, and if he hopes that they’ll just march off his lands when they finished killing dead men, then Jon is wrong and greener than the first new grass after winter had passed. Jon knew that Reed’s words were sound and true, even if he didn’t want to admit to himself yet. It was a nice dream to hold on to. He could’ve imagined it for a while longer, that they’ll repel the dead at the wall and burn them all, then as if it’s a job well done he, Edric and the Wolves would escort these foreign armies south the Trident, and wish them good fortune... And watch them slaughter each other on the spot, most likely, until all Lannisters burned, and Dany landed in front of him on her black dragon, demanding he bent the knee right on the spot or suffer the same fate. Every time he tried to imagine it, that’s where it ended; Jon kneeling on the riverbank of the Trident, where his father fought and died so he could live.

He glanced at Dany. As if on cue, she looked at him and gave him a soft smile. Gods, she was beautiful. She sat there with a straight back, looking every bit like a true queen, in her white fur coat and her royal purple gloves and silk scarf and her braids of silver hair as if it was a crown on her head. And she was his aunt. Do many men have thoughts about fucking their aunt? Jon chuckled, and Dany thought it was for her so she smiled at him once more. If only she knew.

Jon turned to Sansa. Beautiful, graceful Sansa, keeper and guardian of all his secrets, what would she say if she knew those thoughts Jon just had? She made him swear not to have such notions. She worried for him, worried for the North. Jon would be nowhere without Sansa. That’s not exactly true though, is it? He’d be in the ground, probably flayed. No, he’d be in the ground somewhere dead of broken heart. Even being dead on a table at Castle Black sounded better than being without Sansa. She didn’t look at him, her eyes studied the hall. Jon could see she was thinking, learning, studying the men and women. Dutiful as always, sweet Sansa.

In truth Sansa should be queen. Not because she had the right name, but because she was so damn good at ruling when Jon was nothing but bored with the everyday burden of it, always eager to find something to use as excuse to leave it behind. If Lord Reed was right, and Jon knew he was, Sansa will be Queen soon enough. She refused it before but she won’t refuse it this time, Jon knew. She won’t refuse it because Jon only needed to ask. Like with everything else, Jon only needed to ask and he knew Sansa will agree, if Jon really wants her to, Sansa will always agree. Or he thought he knew.

Something happened last night. Something went unspoken in between their words and Jon couldn’t make out what it was, but he knew it was there. It was there when Sansa asked him to stay behind, it was there when she reasoned explaining what it meant when he was gone, whenever he left her. Sansa wanted him beside her. Sansa felt that she needs him beside her. That knowledge made Jon sIt straighter in his chair now, it made her proud.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos spoke, and Jon stood, unconsciously. The hall fell silent long moments ago.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, not even knowing what he wanted to say.

“I’ve explained yesterday that we’ve sent armies to man the wall, I won’t waste our time with detailing it any further. Instead I mean to tell you what I expect from you all. We are at war, and we’ve called all our banners. Here are your duties my lords.

“Lord Reed,” Howland Reed stood in front of the high table and bowed, duly, and Jon’s heart twisted at his sight. “Greywater Watch has 3000 men yet in reserve. I mean to task you and your men to evacuate Barrowtown, and escort them to White Harbor, and your men to bolster the defences of the city. Wait for my message there for further instructions.”

“Your Grace,” Reed was surprised, and even hurt by Jon’s words, Jon could tell as he raised his hand to silence the old man.

“Lord Reed,” he took a deep breath, “Howland. I would trust you with my life any day, and you stand by me through and through and counsel me wisely. It’s not counsel I need now, it’s strong men to fight. And I need the men whose advice I learned to trust to stay alive. I can’t risk your life on the wall, my friend. My decision is final.”

Reed sighed, and bowed, then he sat. ‘I should’ve told him this morning,’ Jon thought. But he didn’t have the heart to, and now it seemed as if he didn’t care. He did care. He wanted Reed beside him, he needed Reed beside him, Reed’s life was the very proof of Jon’s identity. He needed Reed to stay alive, if there was any chance in this war to survive, he needed Reed to make it.

“Lord Glover,” Glover stood tall in front of him and bowed. This will be a hard day, he realised, seeing a certain hatred flicker through in Glover’s eyes as the old man glanced at Daenerys. Northern fools.

“You and your 4000 men should finish the evacuation of Deepwood Motte within a fortnight, send a raven, today. Your men are to come to Winterfell.”

“Your Grace, what about OUR home?” Glover was visibly furious.

“Lord Glover there’s a hundred thousand dead men wanting to take your home, what would your 4000 do?”

“Defend it, Your Grace! To the last soul!”

“Aye, and when the last soul has fallen who’ll burn your dead? No, Lord Glover, you inted to stay behind, meaning you intend to add your 4000 to the army of the dead. I can’t let that happen. For all our sake.”

“I’ve told you all once and let me repeat myself, the dead have no care for your homes. The dead don’t care about land or riches. They care about your souls and your bodies. They want to hunt the living, extinguish your souls so they can take over your bodies, you and your men, all our men, and our women and children, we are the prize possessions for the dead, one soul falling on our side is one body gained on theirs. You’ve seen one dead wight, who wasn’t even half rotten. I’ve seen skeletons marching in the army of the dead, even of little children. I don’t wish that to become of northern men, women and children. Lord Glover, finish evacuation to Winterfell within the fortnight.” Glover didn’t nod, but sat down regardless.

“Lord Flint of the Fingers, you’ll do the same to Moat Cailin. Send your refugees to White Harbor, not Winterfell.”

“Lord Tallhart, same as Lord Flint, but to Castle Cerwyn, not Moat Cailyn. Send your refugeees to White Harbor.”

“Locke, Flint of Widow’s Watch, Woolfield - evacuate to Widow’s Watch and prepare for defence there. Lord Flint,” Jon looked around until an old man slowly made it to stand in front of the High table, “Thank you for taking the journey, Lord Flint, I wouldn’t have minded a messenger,” Jons voice softened, seeing the frail old man who didn’t struggle to bow to him, he struggled to stand straight.

“Aye, Your Grace, I know that,” Flint replied. “But I’ve received your orders. I wanted to see for myself the kind of man who sent them.”

Jon’s fist clenched at that. “Then report, my Lord, what is amiss.”

“Nothing is amiss, your grace,” Flint said louder than any Lord whinging in this hall before. “There are two hundred and sixteen ships lined up around the bay of Widow’s Watch, we’ve done all you bid us to do and halted every trade ship attempting to cross north and taken over their command in the name of the King.” Loud rumble filled the hall at hearing that, but Jon smiled, grinned even. “I much enjoyed the task if I may add. Am I hearing correctly that we are to receive northern refugees, your grace, are we to board them on those ships?”

“Take a seat on the front bench, my Lord. I’ll come to those ships soon enough.”

“Aye,” Flint responded, “but I mean to speak, for I will not speak again to a king in this lifetime. I didn’t believe that we would find a king in my lifetime, then there was one, but soon enough there was none again but the Boltons. They came and took our winter supplies and they burned half the village, those animals, or I shouldn’t call them that, animals don’t do the kind of things they’ve done.” Loud ‘Aye’ filled the hall in agreement at hearing that.

“I haven’t seen this dead man you brought to these good lords for them to see. But on my way here to take the measure of you, I’ve seen an army. I’ve seen a train of marching soldiers as long as the eye could see, and banners of white wolves and red lions and thousands upon thousands of wild horse riders and leather clad dark skinned Essosi. I’ve never seen a fighting force like that, I’ve never imagined that such thing was possible. By the Gods your grace, I feared you bowed to that mad queen who blew up that sept full of people. Then I arrived here and I was told of an independent North declared in Kings Landing by your lord Hand, and I was told that all those men marched off to defend the Wall, our Wall. I take it soon enough some of them will stand atop the wall by the side of my grandsons. So I feel I ought to speak, for I’ve seen a lot in my life. But I’ve never seen an independent North, I’ve never seen the wolves and lions marching to battle together to defend it, I’ve never seen dragons flying in the sky before and I’ve never dared to dream of a king who could make such miracles happen.”

Men were shouting in the hall in agreement as the old man draw an old sword.

“My Lord, there is no need,” Jon began, but Lord Flint held up his hand, as if to gesture him to wait, and began the slow process of getting down on one knee. Jon bit his lower lip as he felt the blood rush into his cheeks and tears burning his eyes. He glanced at Sansa, who smiled at him, proudly.

“There is a need, your grace,” Lord Flint said on one knee, “for I never swore fealty to a king. And I would like to die having done so to you.”

Jon walked out from behind the high table and made it to stand in front of the old man, his legs heavy like stones, his breathing ragged, his heart pumping in his throat.

“Lord Flint of Widows Watch,” he said, his voice betraying his every emotion in that moment, “I ask you to serve House Stark as our bannerman and come to our aid whenever called upon, to stand by our side, now and always.”

“Now And always, Your Grace.” Tears ran down the man’s cheek as he looked up, straight into Jon’s eyes, and Jon reached out his hand, then grabbed him by his arm to help him to his feet. The man hugged him then and the hall erupted in cheer. Jon said a silent thank you for them not chanting “king in the north”, at the least, he couldn’t have taken it. He slowly walked the men toward the nearest bench, ironically next to Lady Mormont. Their eyes met as the lady stood to give way to the man, and her hand reached for Jon’s arm and squeezed it for a moment. They both nodded in silent understanding, before Jon hastily walked back to the high table. He took his cup and drank, his mind as if it was Davos, or Reed, explaining to him that this wasn’t about him. This was about the old man who’s days were counted in this world, who measured up his life and concluded, now is a good time to die. Before it all fell apart. And to die proudly declaring where his loyalties lied. Most of the men in the hall did the same as Jon, probably thinking the same as well, and there was silence once more. Jon cleared his throat.

“No more oaths of fealty or we’ll be here talking until the dead knock on the door to ask why we’ve missed the battle,” he said, and hearty laughter filled the hall.

“Lord Hornwood, refugees to White Harbor, your men to Winterfell. I’m sorry my lord but Hornwood,”

“I know, your grace,” a man stood by the window and spoke, “Hornwood can’t withstand a major siege, I know. My men shall be at Winterfell within the fortnight, our refugees will make for White Harbor within the week, we are prepared.”

Jon nodded thankfully.

“Lord Umber,” The small boy stood at the end of the hall and rushed to stand in front of the high table. “I’ve ordered evacuation of Last Hearth a moon’s turn past, but Lady Sansa informed me that it’s still not started.”

“We need horses, Your Grace,” The boy said bravely, “ours were taken by... you know. We have but a dozen and that is not enough.”

Jon began to ponder on it. If he sends for Edric, he removes a line of defence, if he sends from Winterfell, he sends men into danger from the safety of the castle they were tasked to defend.

Bronze Royce stepped forward.

“Your Grace,” he bowed to Jon, then separately to Sansa. “With my Lady’s permission, if I may offer escort. We’ve got the horses, we can provide the men to protect the refugees, it’s not as safe as a moon ago.”

“Aye, it’s not,” Jon turned to Sansa, “it’s your decision.”

Sansa only took a brief moment. “Take a thousand with you, and as many horses as Lord Umber requires, I trust there is a number,” and all three looked at the boy.

“Hundred and forty, my lady,” the boy spoke proudly as if there was an achievement to be claimed.

“We’ll depart in the morning with your grace,” Bronze Royce bowed and stepped aside. Murmur filled the room. Royce just revealed Jon’s plan of departure.

“My Lords and Ladies,” Jon spoke out louder, “I trust all of you know your positions and orders. Here’s why I’ve given those orders.”

“Tomorrow I’ll depart for Castle Black, with Queen Daenerys and her dragons, and remaining unsullied. I was glad to see the smithy at work and I thank you for the smiths you’ve sent. I brought one from Kings Landing who can work dragonglass and teach them, and there’ll be shipments to the wall every second day. No carts, fast riders on horseback and saddlebags as much as they can carry. Lord Royce I meant to task you with this operation, now I have none to task.”

“Your Grace, it is of no concern,” Roce said, “my men can handle both tasks under the Lady’s command until my return.”

Jon nodded. The time has come to discuss plans.

“We expect the attack at Castle Black, and another on Eastwatch, but we have reason to believe that the main goal of the enemy is to cross at Castle Black. Both are defended, as of now over ten thousand men have been ordered to the wall. The wall itself is our first defence.”

“Should they break through, we have a battle plan to execute. I’ll not speak of it, I’ve spoken of it to the commanders of those armies and we agreed it is the best plan available to us.”

“But no plan can guarantee victory. Should we be defeated, we will not fight to the last man at Castle Black.” Loud murmur filled the hall once more.

“We will not do so, because every man lost to us is a gain to the enemy. We will retreat with dragonfire behind us. We’ll fall back to Last Hearth and regroup with our force from Eastwatch. We’ll defend every castle on their path, Karhold and the Dreadfort are manned, and Last Hearth we’ll protect until the evacuation is complete.”

“Should the wall fall, Lady Sansa will be notified. She will evacuate from Winterfell everyone unable to fight and make it to White Harbor. I hope it won’t come to it, but if we lost three keeps, we will fall back to Winterfell. Those stationed here will attend war council this afternoon and hear what preparations I require. The three keeps in the path aren’t near as strong as this castle, and we’ll hold them until we can, but leave them if we must. But here at Winterfell, we’ll take a stand.”

“Should I fall back to Winterfell, ravens will be sent to Widow’s Watch and White Harbor. Lord Flint is correct, our loved ones will board those ships currently awaiting there, and evacuate to sea. Should we lose Winterfell, we’ll fall back to Castle Cerwyn, regroup and fight to prevent White Harbor being overrun, bid for time for the evacuation to complete before we turn south to Moat Cailin. And so it goes.”

“And what about you?” Sansa turned to him in panic.

“Where should they sail to?” That was Lord Manderly who spoke.

“Dragonstone,” Daenerys answered, clearly for all to hear and the hall fell silent. Jon turned to her as she continued. “Dragonstone has two villages where people currently are preparing supplies, and sufficient land to stop and regroup, and wait for your king. The Dothraki stationed there are tasked to defend and protect any refugee ship bearing the direwolf sigil.”

“You have Dothraki on Dragonstone?”

“Yes, I do,” Daenerys whispered to Jon, as she stood and turned toward the hall. “When your armies reach Moat Cailin, there’ll be a fresh force of 20000 riders to take their place. Orders have been sent, my fleet shall ferry the northmen out, including your king.”

She turned to Jon, but spoke loud and clear for all to hear, “This will no longer be the North’s fight and you’ve done all you could.”

“You have more men,” Jon said in disbelief.

“Yes, Your Grace, I have a reserve because I remembered what you said to me on Dragonstone.”

Jon’s fists wanted to beat up something. Yet there was nothing to do about it now.

“I trust you all have your orders. I wish you all good fortune in the wars to come,” he said for all to hear, and stormed out of the hall.

***

“You haven’t planned on returning,” Sansa said. She stood by the window, her back to Jon. The pale winter sun shone through her hair, flowing loosely around her shoulders and down her back to her waist, alighting the auburn locks as if they were on fire. Jon kept wondering how mesmerising she looked like this.

“Sansa, look at me,” he said softly, “please.”

“You wanted to say as much last night, but then you didn’t. You weren’t planning on coming back.”

“Seven Hells, Sansa! I’ve spent all day arguing defences and preparing Winterfell, I’ve spent days doing the same for the Wall. I’m not planning on losing!”

She turned, and Jon could finally see, her face red and swollen, her eyes brimming with tears. She must’ve cried for hours, and the sight shattered Jons heart to pieces. “But you’ve not made plans to return! You’ve had no plans but to fight and fight and... until you...” she stopped the words with her hand on her mouth as she leaned against the window, sobbing overtaking her once more.

Jon rushed to her, taking her face in his hands.

“You’d fight until you die and you’d not even consider...” she sobbed, “It took to the Dragon Queen to make plans for your return” She dropped her head into the crook of Jon’s neck and cried, loudly sobbing. Jon could feel her tears on his skin, on his shirt. Her arms slowly found him and held him as if they never wanted to let him go, and Jon’s arms held her firm, hands caressing her back to soothe her, waiting for her to calm.

It took time for her rage to run its course, but finally, the sobbing ceased, even tho her hold of him didn’t. Jon could feel her turning her face toward his neck, and reached to hold up her cheek to face him. “I’m not planning to lose, Sansa,” he whispered, as his hands let go of her and cupped her face once more. “Do you hear me? I’m not going to lose.”

“Promise me,” she said, in a barely audible voice that was tired after hours of cries, her eyes begging him.

“I promise. Will you calm, please?” She nodded and finally separated from him. She steadied herself, until her swollen eyes met his once more. “I want to be alone, please,” she whispered.

“Sansa, don’t let me leave like this.”

“I won’t, I promise,” she said shaking her head, “I just need to be alone now.”

Jon nodded, albeit not understanding it at all, but he left the room without further ado.

***

“I want you both to set out to White Harbor tomorrow,” Daenerys said. Tyrion fiddled with his bag as if she only spoke of the weather, but Varys looked rather surprised.

“Neither of you can fight, Lord Varys,” Dany reasoned, “I wasn’t sure of this, but seeing that the king sends his advisors to safety, I should do the same. Clever advice won’t help in this fight.”

“No, it won’t,” Varys agreed. “Though we could’ve saved the journey, seeing that we’ll end up back on Dragonstone.”

“Until this day I wasn’t certain if I need you here or not,” Dany said and turned to Tyrion, “we spoke about this.”

At that, Tyrion looked at her. His face was sad, so very sad as if they’ve already been defeated.

“You remember my orders?” Dany was resolute, and Tyrion nodded.

“Make sure you prepare, Lord Tyrion. I have faith in you.” Dany stood and left the room without looking back.

“You knew of this,” Varys said.

“You did too, you knew there’s a hundred thousand dead men marching on the wall and you knew our queen has set herself to defeat them.”

“I am talking about Dragonstone.”

Tyrion stopped in motion and turned. “She asked me for an evacuation plan, and she’s decided to hold back the Dothraki, seeing that they won’t be as effective a fighting force in a battle at the Wall or a siege. The aim is to win on northern soil, this is but a last attempt to reach safety if the North is lost...”

“Last attempt for the King in the North and his people.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard you so many times chanting how you serve the realm and the common people. You should be glad, our queen offered them a safe place. Apparently the dead don’t swim.”

“And who counselled her to do so?”

“No one,” Tyrion turned back to her bag. “She made the decision herself, as I assume she made the decision to free hundreds of thousands of slaves instead of storming Kings Landing years ago.”

Varys sighed. “And with that our quest for the Iron Throne is over.”

“I would point out that our quest is only over if the dead overtake the country, but it would be futile,” Tyrion said lowly. “Sometimes I wonder who you really serve, my friend.”

***

It was so quiet and tranquil. The crypts always provided a sense of peace to Jon, a sense of belonging. That felt ironic now, feeling that belonging he’s always felt down here, among the dead.

He stood in front of Lyanna Stark, his eyes studying the features of the statue as if he could be certain that they represented the real Lyanna. Standing in front of her, it seemed to Jon that all his worries could disappear, the world could slip beyond awareness as if it never existed except one thing, that one blow that he knew he could never recover from or forgive. The life they took from him. The mother he never knew, who died far away in a tower with no one but a septa and Ned Stark beside her. And Howland Reed. The closest he could get to the family he lost was Howland Reed.

He’s heard the soft clothes shuffling on the ground but didn’t look toward where the sound came from. He knew who it was. He could tell from thousands upon thousands of skirts who’s skirt brushed the floors approaching him, so he didn’t turn until she stood beside him.

“Lord Reed said she was beautiful,” Sansa said softly and Jon nodded. Reed has told stories to him too, stories of how he’s met Jon’s mother and what she was like, how he knew Lord Eddard, how the tourney at Harrenhal went down. How his father looked, and how he fought, or rather pretended to fight, because in Jon’s eyes jousting wasn’t fighting. Fighting was when you stand on the frozen ground holding on to your sword and charge with the last of your might, and see the white walker shatter to a thousand pieces in front of you, as your last strength leaves you and you drop to your knees, begging the Gods in your mind to make it end. That was fighting. That’s what he intended to do. He turned to Sansa.

“Are you feeling better?” He asked, albeit he could tell she wasn’t really, her eyes were still swollen, her face pale like a death mask, and the sight caused the chill run down Jon’s spine. She shook her head.

“Sansa,” he stepped closer, taking her hands in his, “Don’t let me go like this, please.”

She shook her head once more, made an attempt to smile at him as their eyes met. “I don’t,” she whispered.

“You stay safe, promise me,” Jon asked then, but she shook her head, again.

“I won’t lie to you, and I won’t make a promise I can’t uphold,” she said. “I’ll do what you ask and I’ll send the refugees when you ask, but I won’t leave.”

“Sansa...” he began but her fingers silenced him.

“Just accept it. I will be here when you return. I will train with Arya and I will oversee the preparations, I will be useful. I won’t leave you behind, Jon, I won’t abandon you.”

He sighed, resolving to himself that an argument was futile, and nodded to her in acceptance. He didn’t want to leave with an argument being the last conversation between them.

“You’re as stubborn a northerner as anyone,” he said with a slight smile, only to try to reassure her but of what, he couldn’t tell. “Remember what I told you at Castle Black? We will take the North to fight this. We knew this will come.”

“We did,” her eyes began to fill with tears as they pierced his, “That doesn’t make it any easier. I want to give something to you.”

She took his left hand in hers, her free hand fiddling in her pocket until she produced a ribbon. She tied it on his wrist.

“A favour?” Jon smiled at the gesture, in the dim light of the torches he could hardly make it out but he saw it was a ribbon embroidered. Sansa held his hand between her two hands.

“That is what ladies give to their favoured knight,” she whispered. “And you are my very own Dragonknight.”

She leaned close to him then and placed a kiss on his lips, barely brushing his skin with hers. Jon froze. He wanted to say something, open his mouth and speak but he had no words as she parted from him, her eyes full of emotion. She held his gaze for only a moment, before she turned and walked away. Jon could do nothing but watch, standing in front of his mother’s statue as if he became a piece of stone himself, looking for words that never came.


	18. The Wall I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonsa (implied)

It’s been three days since they left Winterfell, and they’ve just parted with Bronze Yohn Royce and his men, who turned to Last Hearth to provide escort as required by small Ned Umber and his smallfolk, last to attempt escaping the coming storm. The boy rode by Jon’s side the last three days, he was adamant to do so. In another world, Lords and Queens would probably take offence to such childish behaviour of him demanding to ride ahead of their forces, even from a ten year old little lordling. But this was the shithole they lived in, where no one had anything more to say or do but to march and fight and die, and in this shithole of a world, the sight of a small boy smiling was the most that anyone could hope for. And so they all doted on the boy. Mainly Daenerys, who told him of dragons, and Jon learned in detail about a battle in the bay of Meereen where she rode her black dragon against those ships and saved the city. Then there was Bronze Royce himself, he’s told him stories of old, of Duncan the Tall and the Sword of the Morning, and Aemon the Dragonknight.

Jon often fiddled with the ribbon on his wrist listening to that. The first night he took it off after they camped, to have a proper look. It must’ve cost Sansa a good deal of time, and it was long in the making, Jon knew. It was a silk ivory ribbon, wider than a usual favour would’ve been and looked quite expensive, Jon thought when he first dared to look at it. There were scenes embroidered on it, tiny little scenes, the ribbon told a story. It started with a red dragon and a grey wolf coming together as the dragon flew above the wolf, then it had a black-clad figure standing alone. It had the wall next, then wights with minuscule blue eyes - that must’ve been hard for Sansa to execute, tiny blue stones sewed into their faces. The ribbon portrayed a battle, the black-clad figure fought a wight in the next scene. It had a minuscule Winterfell, Jon recognised it, but in the scene it was burning. Finally the black clad figure fought a blue figure. Then it was just the black, dragon on one side and wolf on the other, and a crown of tiny stones on his head. The scenes were separated by soft blue wines not unlike the colour of Sansa’s eyes, and wolves, grey wolf and white wolf facing each other, and the white wolf was Ghost, Jon knew from its red eyes. When he first studied it, he had tears running slowly on his cheeks by the time he finished, silently, remembering Sansa’s face in the courtyard as they said goodbye, how she couldn’t look him in the eye and how he felt her not wanting to let go of their embrace. Jon cupped her face in his hands and told her to be safe for him, kissing her forehead. He felt so unbelievably bad when departing from Arya next, while his thoughts still lingered on Sansa. You’re my very own Dragonknight, Sansa told him in the crypt, the words etched into Jon’s memory never to be forgotten, with a clear understanding now of what they meant. Her very own Dragonknight.

Little Ned Umber was likely to never become a Lady’s very own Dragonknight, or any other kind of night for that matter, Jon thought bitterly. He pondered on their chances enough, he weighed all the odds, analysed each possibility he could come up with, and he always arrived at the same conclusion: It was not enough. Like when Sansa used to argue with him before the battle of Winterfell: It was not enough. It truly wasn’t. They didn’t have enough men or weapons or supplies, they weren’t prepared. In his weakest moments he prayed to the Gods for some time, just a little more perhaps. In his recurring silent rage, he cursed it all, he cursed himself for wasting every single day he wasted, on Dragonstone, or at Winterfell, playing king. He should’ve marched to the Wall straight away. But it would’ve been worth very little, he knew, their steel swords are nothing against this enemy. They needed more dragonglass, they needed all the Valyrian steel swords the realm could muster, and even if they had everything they needed, and three dragons to breath fire upon the enemy, they still wouldn’t be enough. Jon found himself pondering what kind of adequate preparations could’ve been made, and he always arrived at the same conclusion. That he was not enough. That this world needed Rhaegar Targaryen to survive, to mine that damned dragonglass on his damned stone island until every last piece was forged into swords and daggers and spearheads and arrowheads, until every last man of the kingdom was called to arms and armed. Was Rhaegar King this past twenty years, he would’ve done that much, Jon concluded. And so he cursed Robert Baratheon even more so than before, this time not for the life he stole from Jon. But for the chance of life he stole from every living soul south the Wall. All that for what? A woman who didn’t love him back, who chose someone else. The world was to be erased from memory as much as Jon could tell, disappear under an endless long night of darkness because Robert Baratheon couldn’t accept that Lyanna Stark loved another.

But Rhaegar died, Robert lived, and this very fact plunged this country into a string of rebellions and wars of five kings and beyond. Had his father lived, Jon was certain that he himself would march at the head of an army of a hundred thousand to defeat the dead. Had he lived, that army would carry dragonglass swords and who knows, perhaps even Valyrian steel, more Valyrian steel. But he didn’t live, so Jon had neither. Not the men, not the dragonglass, at least not yet but he could never have had enough, he’s ran out of time. And Valyrian steel? Jon did a count on their first day of march to the Wall. Jaime Lannister has half of Ice. Brienne, so adamant to leave Sansa behind despite Jon’s wishes had the other. And Sam. Gods, foolish and honourable Sam always doing the right thing, who had his father’s enormous long sword melted down to make two of it. Heartsbane it was called. Jon couldn’t believe it, when he was to say goodbye and Sam said, “I’m coming with you.” And he showed him the sword, the grip still that of the long sword that was, but the blade shorter, light enough for a man like Sam to wield. He carried the pair of it with him, he’s said he’ll give it to someone who can wield it, perhaps Edric. Or he’ll give it to Edd, Sam mused. In the end he gave it to Howland Reed.

That was yet another unplanned turn of events. Jon didn’t really understand it to be honest. All this time while he was amassing an army, Bran said very little. Jon wondered enough why the seeer didn’t provide any more knowledge but all he could tell them, the dead were there. The dead were in the Haunted Forest, waiting. That was nothing new, until Jon went to the godswood to say goodbye. And Bran, even more emotionless than his usual self, if that was even possible, told him he’s making a mistake. Bran told him he can’t see. Jon didn’t understand it, and perhaps Bran didn’t either, but Bran reasoned that it may be because of the mark on his arm, that blackish blue mark of a hand, HIS hand. Bran couldn’t see him, he could only tell that he was not in the Haunted Forest. And Bran could still tell where he was, but not because he saw him. Because Howland Reed saw him at the Fist of the First Men.

Howland Reed was a greenseeer, whatever that meant, and a warg. Jon knew what a warg was, unlike most of the North, of course he did. He’s seen wargs, he warged into Ghost enough to know what it meant. Howland Reed warged into ravens, like Bran did, and he warged into dead ravens flying above the sky. Later Reed told him that it was something they tried, to fly out and find their dead equivalents and leap as he called it, when Bran revealed to Reed that he can’t see. That’s how Jon learned that Bran and Reed knew of each other long before Reed arrived at Winterfell, that Bran asked him to come. And that was why Bran told Jon to take Reed with him, to not make the mistake of sending Reed to safety.

It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Jon already said goodbye to Reed then, and Reed wasn’t at all hiding his disappointment. Jon wanted to reason, but Reed only told him he was wrong, he’s ought to have learned from his time with the freefolk. The freefolk used wargs to scout. But Jon also remembered the stories when wargs got killed, only to be stuck in a raven for the rest of their miserable lives. And Reed wasn’t easy to make amends with either. Sure, he came with Jon without a word, he’s duly invested his daughter Meera as the Lady of Greywater Watch there in the courtyard of Winterfell and joined his king - she was a hundred times more Arya than a lady, Jon had to hide his grin of disbelief as he watched the scene unfold and the complete unbelievability of it. But Reed wasn’t to make amends like that. The first night Reed came to Jon, and Jon’s got a roasting like never before in his life.

Reed told him that he’s growing unreasonable, isn’t he a dragon? Jon didn’t feel like a dragon. He felt that he could’ve been more accurately described like a lizard, ironically, rushing to hide under a rock at the first sign of danger. That is what angered Reed. Jon’s elaborate plans to abandon the North should it come to that, were what angered Reed. Howland told Jon to look at Daenerys. Does she flinch from the fight? Does she cower? No, she didn’t, she was a dragon. And then Howland told Jon how he’s allowed the opinions of others to form his own without knowing the truth, how he’s allowed himself to become what he so despised in Daenerys when they first met, how he judged her for the firm stand she took, and how the very deeds that Jon so eagerly threw in her face were the deeds he’s committed himself. Wasn’t he exploiting Daenerys for her armies and her dragons? Wasn’t he exploiting the Lannisters? He was even exploiting the Wolves, regardless of how eagerly they served him, he listened as they howled him King in the North, knowing full well that it wasn’t his right.

Jon lost it then, just as Daenerys did against him, and questioned what else could he have done? The North would’ve never followed him. No they wouldn’t have, Howland said, but they would’ve followed a Stark, glancing down so obviously at Jon’s wrist that he felt the urge to pull down his sleeve and hide that beautiful embroidered ribbon. He didn’t understand, Reed said then, he didn’t understand anything. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Howland said to him and Jon had no more words to speak, in his shock and confusion.

That was two days ago. Since then, Jon didn’t speak with anyone save little Ned Umber. The Queen tried, and Sam tried too, even Brienne approached him once. But Reed kept his distance from him. Perhaps he knew that Jon needed time. He truly needed time, but time was the one sure thing he didn’t have. Within a day he’ll be at Castle Black, shoring up defences, meeting with armies, greeting Edd once more. That was something to look forward to.

He thought a lot about what Reed could’ve meant. “Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark,” those were Lyanna Mormont’s words when the little girl proclaimed Jon her king. But Jon wasn’t a Stark. He was a Targaryen, as alien as that sounded to him. He knew well enough that the title of King didn’t belong to him, he told as much to Davos, but what could he have done? Stand and tell them?

“Excuse me my Lords but I cannot be your King, I am not a Stark, my sire was Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon amused himself with the thoughts of how they would’ve slaughtered him on the spot.

“Excuse me my Lords, but I cannot be your King, I am not a Stark. Sansa Stark, she is your true Queen in the North.”

They would’ve proclaimed her, Jon knew. He remembered when he asked her and she refused, the night after they proclaimed him, sitting by the fire in her solar. Why did she refuse? Jon thought then that she didn’t want it, but he was certain now that his reasoning wasn’t sound. It looked more like she didn’t want it, because it was his. Because it was given to Jon, and judging by the immense pride he saw in Sansa’s eyes that day, and every day since whenever someone, anyone, treated Jon with the respect a King deserved, Sansa was standing aside for Jon and only Jon. She refused not because she no longer craved her childhood dreams or because it was the right thing to do, Jon knew it now. She refused it because she loves him. “My very own Dragonknight,” she called him when she kissed him. And she would rather be the Lady whose favour that Dragonknight wore on his wrist than the Queen who stood in his way.

“Howland,” Jon called back to the man behind him. The eyes of those who rode behind him, Dany, the pair of Essosi who Jon by now was certain were in love, and Brienne and Sam, all fell on the aging Howland Reed, as he rode forth to get beside Jon.

“Your Grace,” Howland Reed began, “If I overstepped...”

“You didn’t,” Jon interrupted. “I needed a good roasting.”

Reed chuckled, “Aye, you did, Jon.”

“You know that she wouldn’t be riding behind us if she knew,” Jon said then, as a matter of fact, even though even he wasn’t sure of it being true. Reed didn’t respond for a moment.

“That, we will never know,” Reed said finally, “Would she have come to aid her nephew who has the claim she covets for herself? Would the North have rallied behind a Stark Queen if she wed a Targaryen? Would Jaime Lannister man the Wall at the command of Rhaegar’s son, would his usurper sister have agreed to it knowing what you represent? If you wed Sansa and proclaimed yourself, would they have realised the threat you represent? These questions will never be answered, because that path has not been taken. The chance to find out what could’ve been had you been honest with them has passed for good.”

Jon looked at his companion. “Daenerys will never forgive the lie.”

“You can’t know that,” Reed said softly, “The future may be written, but it cannot be seen, not by anyone. Events are bound together in an intricate web like a fine piece of linen, not unlike the shirt you wear. You pull one string, and many others change position, and therefore meaning.”

Jon pondered on what he’s been told. “When you say what you say, Jon, when events unfold in what circumstances, and the decisions made in those circumstances shape the reactions to those events and decisions. Know the circumstances and you know the reactions to those circumstances, through knowing the decisions made before them.”

“And the people who made them decisions,” Jon added, nodding.

“Aye, them too.”

Jon took a deep breath, as if there was anything to think about, but his mind was empty. For the first time since they left Winterfell, his mind was at peace.

“I will tell them. The next time we are together, I will tell them all.”

It was Howland Reed’s turn to sigh deeply. “And what will come after that?”

“I have no clue,” Jon shook his head. “But I’ll tell them and I will tell the North that Sansa is their rightful Queen. They’ll proclaim her, I know that much.”

“Aye, they will,” Reed agreed, “And what comes after?”

“She’ll rule and hopefully, she’ll arrange defences.” Jon thought for a moment, “Not just hopefully. She will arrange defences, she will stand for the North. She would, until her last breath she would.”

“I can only say what you’ve been told many times before,” Reed said sharply to him then, “You know nothing, Jon Snow. You still know nothing.” With that he’s turned his horse and left Jon to ponder in his shock once more. Wasn’t this what Howland counselled him to do? Wasn’t his dishonesty that came to the fore two nights ago? What did he miss?

***

Jon tried to stand straight against the harsh winds, gesturing Daenerys and the others to stay behind in the safety of the path. Why the Nights Watch hasn’t built any barricades here, he couldn’t tell. One more step, perhaps two, and the fall would take long before the body breaks on the ground below, in front of the gate. A sudden ghust of this wind could force the strongest of men to lose balance and fall. Only Reed stepped beside him, Jon reaching out his hand protectively in front of the frail man as he perceived Reed.

The Real North lay wast in front of them as far as the eye could see, the Haunted Forest heavy with layers of snow, undisturbed on branches as well as on the ground in front of the wall. It was all very peaceful, save the eerie silence. No birds, no hush of animals moving in the woods, just silence and winds.

“They are there,” Reed said, and Jon nodded.

“Is he with them?”

Howland looked at Jon before he stepped back, and Jon followed. Back in the path, Read sat, and his eyes flipped up, showing the white sclera of his eyeballs as he left his own body, now motionlessly sitting on the path. Jaime and Daenerys looked stunned, but Sam and Edd merely watched bemused. They’ve seen things, this was nothing new to them.

“He’s a warg,” Jon reasoned, glancing up in the sky where a flock of ravens now hushed past. “He’s up there in one of them.” Jon turned and watched the ravens fly away, above the forest, past the thick lines of pines. They all watched, until they could see nothing more but a group of small dots. Jon had to narrow his eyes to see them clearly.

The dots scattered, abruptly, and Reed came back with a small cry. Breathing heavy, he stood, for a moment struggling for balance.

“You’ve seen him,” Jon noted, “Bran said he scatters the ravens.”

Reed nodded. “I’ve seen them all, the white walkers on horseback. He is with them. We don’t have much time.”

“White walkers,” Jaime repeated deep in thought, “are they any different?”

“They are like... generals,” Jon explained.

“You killed one at Hardhome,” Edd said to Jon, “I remember the ones I fought then fell. That’s why I could come to you.”

They all looked at Jon then. “Maybe he’s the one who turned them, I don’t know,” Jon pondered aloud. “I fought them, but I know very little about them, in truth.”

“We should aim at them walkers, still,” Jaime said resolutely.

“They stay behind,” Jon countered, “they send forth the masses of their wights and watch. That’s what they did at Hardhome, they sat atop their dead horses on the cliff and watched.”

“Until one came down where you were,” Edd said lowly.

“Aye, until one came down to where I was going,” Jon explained, “I was trying to retrieve Sam’s dragonglass. The Thenn there, their chieftain who refused for them to come with us, he’s told me to find the glass and went to fight the walker. The walker cut him down in mere moments with his spear, then it came after me.”

“I think it came after you from the start,” Reed said. “The Thenn was at the wrong place.”

“Aye, may be,” Jon nodded, deep in thought. “He was up there too, on the cliff. I saw him watching me.”

“He knows who you are,” Reed declared as if he declared what was for supper that day, and Jon chuckled.

“What does that mean,” Dany asked confused, “who is he?”

“The son of ice and fire.”

***

Preparations were made. Trenches were dug. The unsullied created some kind of mechanism that dropped the wooden bridges above them deep trenches, creating planks, that were to be set on fire, Grey Worm explained. He’s planned to line up his men behind them.

Two weeks have passed. Dozens of knights rode to the camp in Moles Town every second day, their horses weighed down with saddle bags heavy, full of arrow heads, spear heads, swords cruelly constructed from dragonglass, and curved blades. Jon didn’t understand at first, until he saw Dany’s eyes alight with delight at the sight of one. “He promised he’ll do it,” she said, taking it into her small hands then, before she handed it to the Dothraki behind her and Jon understood. Dothraki arakhs.

They’ve had war council every single day, as if there was much to discuss. How many arrows were atop the wall in those grab-and-carry pouches, how many spears of the unsullied were now fitted with dragonglass spearheads. Edric came with some of his men and took some of the saddle bags, to outfit the Wolves. Dothraki rode back and forth, Ser Jorah leading their groups every single time. It must’ve been tiring for the aging knight, Jon thought, riding all day, each day, but he’s never heard Ser Jorah complain.

Jon gave Longclaw to Ser Jorah. The old knight promised to return it, he would only accept it if he could return it, despite how Jon explained to him that Longclaw was really, the old Longclaw.

“The Old Bear changed the bear to a wolf, but it’s still Longclaw,” Jon said. “It’s slain wights by the dozen. It’s slain a white walker.” Jorah bowed to him deeply as he took it in his hands, unsheathed it halfway, adoration and regret filling his eyes.

“I brought shame onto my House, I broke my father’s heart. I forfeited the right to claim this sword,” Jorah told Jon then. “This sword is yours and it would serve you well, and your children after you.”

Jon was touched by his words. There was honour in the old knight, he saw it himself. He thought the Old Bear would be proud, oh so proud to have heard his son now. Jorah handed back the sword but Jon pushed it away then, back to the knight to have it.

“You give away your Valyrian Steel because you are an honourable man, through and through, your grace, but you are also the King. You need this sword, because your people need you,” Jorah said.

“And she needs you,” Jon said with a slight smile, “worry not Ser Jorah, I have a sword to fight with. We need every piece of Valyrian steel in capable hands, and the hands that defeated a Dothraki in single combat are indeed capable hands.”

Jorah nodded to him then. “I’ll take it,” he whispered, his eyes shining, “and I’ll bring it back to you. After we won, I’ll bring it back, and the future Kings in the North will wield it for generations to come.”

Jon smiled at the old knight as he nodded farewell and left his tent, wondering about his words. The future Kings in the North - Jon wasn’t sure if Jorah’s Queen would have agreed. But it didn’t matter. Jon would never sire the future Kings in the North. Jon won’t be King long enough to even ponder on such things. Perhaps he will never ever sire a child.

He sat there for awhile, fingers rubbing his forehead deep in thought as he leaned against the small table, lost in the maze of lies he’s conducted for himself. He was ashamed, so deeply ashamed. These past days and weeks, he revisited every single time someone looked at him with that usual admiration they all looked at him with, and hailed him their king, swore their fealty, proclaimed their endless support. It was a lie. It was so easy to tell to Davos aboard that ship in what seemed like a lifetime ago, and now, it was so heavy to bear, now that he knew what that lie did to others. What sacrifices they all paid because they all believed Jon’s lie. Howland Reed was wrong. Ygritte was wrong. Jon knew something. He knew he was just like the rest of them, a liar, a schemer, a pretender. He knew he was unworthy of his father.

“Are you all right?” Jon looked up upon hearing the soft, soothing voice of another he’s lied to and misled.

“Aye,” he said, “only a bit weary that is all.”

“Aren’t we all,” she said as she sat down on the chair beside him with a sigh. “I came to thank you.”

“For what?” Jon asked surprised, and Daenerys laid her hand on his hand resting on the table, like when they first spoke in a different tent, for the first time with respect for one another.

“For that sword,” she said, “Your sword with the white wolf on the pommel. You’ve told Jorah it was his father’s.”

“That is true,” Jon explained, “I served his father at Castle Black. I saved his life from the first wight I ever saw, that arose to kill the Lord Commander, and he gave me his family sword. Why he’s done that, I could never understand.”

“It’ll save his life, Jon,” Dany whispered then, her eyes settling in his, and Jon could swear he could get lost in the violet of them like the sky at sunset, if he allowed himself to. “You saved his life with that sword. I could never thank you for it.”

Jon sighed. “There are a great many things that I could never thank you enough for, Dany.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Dany’s face, but Jon continued. “Without you, we wouldn’t be near as prepared as we are. You’ve brought the glass, you’ve called that meeting in Kings Landing, you’ve marched north with your armies beside your own enemy to fight for us. And you brought our greatest weapons.”

“The dragons,” Dany whispered.

“Aye, the dragons,” Jon agreed, his gaze settling on Dany’s hand resting on his. He turned his hand and took Dany’s in his palm, his fingers closing softly around her small hand. “But all of this, none of it would be possible without you. My people have a chance thanks to you. They have a safe place to escape to, thanks to you.”

She didn’t respond for a moment. “No,” she said softly, “It’s all thanks to you, Jon. You came to Dragonstone knowing that I’ll look at you and see a usurper, that I could just as well take your life. And you were right in not showing me the boy when you met me. I wouldn’t have understood, Jon. I needed you to open my eyes, I needed that rage to fly north and see. And I needed to see, to know.”

“I cannot bend the knee to you, Dany,” Jon whispered.

“I know,” she said as her eyes met his once more, her fingers locking on his ribboned wrist to provide him the assurance that she understood. “I know that now. I’ve seen it in Lord Flint’s eyes, I’ve seen it in the eyes of the children who gave me flowers on the road. I know you asked them to give me those flowers, else they would’ve never... I’ve seen your men hailing you their king, and I’ve seen how they are with foreigners. They suffered a lot, now I understand why they say that the North remembers. Never tell my advisors, but I understand, Jon.”

Jon’s heart pumped in his throat, as desperation overtook him. “No, Dany, you don’t understand,” he whispered, laying his free hand on hers. “I just hope one day you’ll forgive me, that you’ll fight beside me, but I...”

The flap of the tent threw open, “Jon, you have to come,” said Edd, his eyes betraying his surprise at the scene he’s interrupted.

Both Jon and Dany stood and marched out of the tent without a moment of hesitation. Outside, Howland Reed and Ser Jorah stood with Grey Worm and a group of Dothraki, and three men wearing the chain cross of Umber on their chest. The Umber men swiftly knelt in front of Jon. Their shame after the betrayal of their former Lord made them all the more aware of their fealty to their king.

“What is it?”

The men stood, their leader stepping forward. “The dead, Your Grace,” he panted. “They are at Eastwatch.”

“They attacked?” Jon grew tense in an instant.

“No, your grace,” the man tried to explain, “forgive me. They are just... there. Standing in front of the wall, just there. The don’t move, they just stare at us on the wall. They’ve been there for half a day like that, when we were sent, and we rode down our horses, and the Dothraki gave us theirs to reach you as fast as we could. The red bearded wildling said to convey your orders to him on our return.”

“They are just standing,” Jon repeated, glancing at Howland Reed. “They are waiting.”

Reed nodded, more in affirmation than understanding, and Jon continued his chain of thought. “They must be synchronising their attack. It’s coming!”

He moved then, and all of them moved, shouting orders as they rushed forth, to get men into position. The unsullied ran to line up behind the trenches, Edd cursed as he ordered the men of the Nights Watch and the Lions with them to abandon the castle and fall back behind the Unsullied. Ser Jorah turned aside to mount his horse and the Dothraki posse he rode with that day as well as the three Umbers followed his example. Jorah rode back to Jon.

“I wish you good fortune in the war to come, your grace,” he said and Jon nodded, but the old knight’s eyes were already in Daenerys. She reached up and squeezed his hand.

“We should be better at saying goodbye by now,” she told him. The old night nodded and Jon knew then - he loved the Queen, not like a knight loves his lord and lady, this was a man’s love for the woman.

“Your Grace,” Jorah said, nodding, before he released her hand and rode off. The next time they’ll see him will be in battle, Jon thought bitterly, as he ran forward, followed by the Edd, Dany and Howland Reed.

“We need to see,” Jon declared as he reached the elevator, his hands pulling the iron door open, the others closely behind him. A Brother took to the task of lifting them while they all waited silently. Jon noticed how their breath was becoming visible in the air, how the air cooled so swiftly, so unnaturally around them.

Atop the wall, he stepped out and rushed to the edge but he could see already. A storm unlike any he’s ever seen, dark winds and the sounds of thunder from dark grey clouds that covered the Hainted Forest in front of them, stripping the trees of layers of snow and lifting their branches as they swung in many directions all at once like a dance. He couldn’t see them, the zone between the forest and the wall that the Nights Watch or even Bran the Builder cleared for the sake of safety and visibility was clear, the snow untouched, the storm staying clear. Jaime Lannister, who rushed to him as he arrived, looked at him in shock and disbelief.

“Blow the horn!” Jon shouted, “Blow the fucking horn!” And they heard it soon enough. Three blasts. And three blasts again. And again. Their time was up.


	19. The Wall II

Jon glanced down on the southern side. Men were still rushing about, but the courtyard of Castle Black was deserted, save the two Brothers who stood on the small podium they were to arrive on, were they to use the elevator, to man the ages-old iron beast.

His gaze followed south, to see lines of trenches, covered by wooden bridges. Brothers and Lions rushed toward them still, albeit he could see in the distance that formations were taken up already, these were the last ones, staggering. The unsullied stood still, as if frozen in time, in their black leather garments and black hooded short cloaks, spears in their right hands with black shiny spearheads of dragonglass, shields on their left sides. They amazed Jon for a moment, how their very presence oozed a calm dread of death. Was it he standing opposite them he’d surely feel it. He hoped that day will never come.

He glanced to the right, toward the woods. There was no sign of the dragons, of Rhaegal, but Jon knew that they were hiding in the woods. So was Edric, at the head of his cavalry 5000 strong, hopefully many of them by now wielding dragonglass swords. Hopefully Edric had one. Jon flinched at the thought of losing the man, when their fight was only beginning.

To the left, he could see far in the distance, and far in the distance he could see motion. The Dothraki were in position, far enough not to be noticed by an emerging threat, close enough to ride in hard and fast, to gain the speed they needed for a true Dothraki attack. Jon could make out the shiny spot that was Ser Jorah Mormont at the front, clad in his armour, and smiled. Longclaw will serve the Mormonts once more today, and will serve them well.

The horn of the Nights Watch sounded again, three long blasts, and Jon’s gaze lifted to the right side of the path atop the wall. Lannisters. Red cloaked Lions, mixed with black cloaked Brothers. They were ready, all standing in position with bow and arrows, barrels of pitch lined up all along the path, firepits burning. They didn’t have enough dragonglass arrows, they could not waste what little they had. They had to rain fire on them, much like how the Watch rained fire on Mance and the greatest army the world has ever seen… Until today, because if greatest meant the highest in number, or even if greatest meant the most fearsome, then truly Mance and the freefolk will be outmatched today by a lot.

Jon turned, noting with a sigh of relief the same calm preparedness on the left side. After all, this wasn’t just the Nights Watch – these weren’t a few hundred brothers of whom most have never seen a fight before, never held a real sword before in their lives. These were soldiers, professionals trained through long years of hard work, and battle hardened in the war of the five kings and in the war against Daenerys in the Reach. Yet Jon knew, when they’ll see, when they’ll truly see, they’ll all shiver with fear. The man who didn’t shiver at the sight of the army of the dead, who didn’t feel dread filling his heart as the cold settled in his bones, that man was a fool waiting to die. No one was invincible, not even these well trained soldiers, not the unsullied, not Jaime Lannister or Daenerys Targaryen, and not even he, Jon Snow. Targaryen. Not Snow. And not Stark either.

“Gather around,” he said then, and studied their faces as they all obeyed, while the horn sounded its three blast mantra. Grey Worm, Daenerys, Jaime Lannister, Edd Tollett, Samwell Tarly, and Howland Reed. “What a funny group of people we are to save the world,” Jon said with a forgiving smile, and they all looked around at each other, appreciation in their eyes, if not even comradeship. They were in this together, and they knew that clearly, their faces said more than any words could.

“The tunnel is below us, but I think they will try to climb, as well, because the tunnel would narrow their column making it vulnerable just as we expect it. While they are on the ground, rain fire on them. When they climbed close, dragonglass arrows can be used if the shot is clear but don’t waste. Fire kills them all the same. Drop the pitch at large groups down below. If they reach the top, cut them down with dragonglass, not steel – else they will just climb back up.”

“Have you finished sealing the tunnel?” Jon looked at Edd who nodded with a stern face. “Good.”

“When they break through, we abandon the wall to the right and left, run to the nearest tower and descend, then turn and fight. There are spare horses at the ready on each side. We’ll join those groups riding in on the sides. Make sure the messengers run forth to warn the others. Daenerys will burn them but be careful,” he glanced at Dany, “They may be prepared for your dragons.”

“Spears,” she nodded. “They tried at Hardhome with spears.”

“Burn them in Castle Black as they emerge and aim to retreat when our attack begins. We’ll attack on the sides just below the keep. Those who filter through both the fire and us will face the unsullied.” Grey Worm nodded.

“If you hear a horn three short times after they broke through, that means retreat.” his hand wandered to the warhorn by his side, that Edric has returned a few days ago, arguing that Jon was now back with his army. Edric took this command and horn business rather seriously, almost too seriously.

“If we retreat, burn them behind us,” he looked at the nodding Daenerys once more, “Burn our dead.”

Jon sighed, his hand grabbing hers, “Please Dany, burn all our dead.” 

She nodded once more, “I know. I will.”

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,” Jaime Lannister said solemnly, and they all nodded, humming some inaudible response. Without a word more, they turned to their tasks. Jaime took the left side and Edd Tollett the right, with Jon remaining where they stood. Once more, he thought, standing in the same spot, he was in command. Daenerys, Sam and Grey Worm left. Only Reed stood beside Jon now.

“I’d be happier if you left, too” Jon said softly.

“Aye, I know,” Reed said as he sat down. Ravens took off once more from above Jon’s head. He didn’t need to look at Reed to know. He watched as they flew out, high above the forest, high above that brewing storm. They circled and circled and circled. There was nothing to see, Jon knew.

Suddenly, the storm began to rise, higher and higher as if lifted from above. The clouds began to lift, it seemed to Jon, to dissipate, but the winds took up and blew stronger, louder. It felt as if the air froze, every breath became a fight for more air, every time he exhaled he felt that he exhaled nothing but ice. As the clouds diminished, he could see the forest once more. The pines stood still, this time. They looked peaceful, strong and steady, their arms no longer weighed down.

“I wish you good fortune in the war to come, Jon of House Targaryen,” he heard Reed mutter in his ear as his hand grabbed Jon’s own, “And now it begins.” Shiver ran down his spine as he turned to the old man. “Same to you, my friend, same to you.”

Riders appeared, at measured distances from each other, their horses leisurely stepping forward in the same rhythm. The horn sounded, three blasts, one last time, as the riders stopped at once. It was time.

“Men of the Nights Watch!” Jon shouted, watching as the army itself began to emerge from the forest. “Men of Westeros, Men of Essos! Death is coming for you! He wants you to march beside him against the living, do you want to march beside him?”

The roaring shouts of “NOOOO!” echoed across the wall, and Jon was certain that those down below could hear it just as clearly. His heart skipped a beat and for a moment, he truly hoped for the impossible.

“Do you want to fight beside him?” “NOOOO!” Jon could make out a beat down below, the drums of the Wolves began their rhythm from the woods. He allowed a slight smile to himself.

“Do you want to die today?” “NOOOO!” The beats from below echoed Jon’s heart as he felt the rush of blood flowing through him, exciting him, preparing him for the fight, itching his fingers to draw sword once more.

“Then lets show this fuckers how the living fight!” Jon glanced at Reed amidst the roaring “YEAH!” and Reed smiled, a wide smile, a proud smile.

They watched as the army stopped in front of them. For a moment, it seemed that time itself stopped, that nothing moved, even the living took no breath, even the winds stopped blowing. Then they ran at once, countless rotting corpses began to run past their commanders and forth toward the wall.

“Nock!” they could hear Jaime Lannister, followed by Edd, and countless arrows found their position in bows, ready to be drawn.

The dead closed the distance swiftly. “Draw!” 

Jon watched as the mass of wights rushed forward in that sickening motion, “Loose!” - and countless burning arrows filled the sky, and countless little fires alit where they found target below. 

“Nock! Draw! Loose!” ‘Rain fire on them’, Jon thought, as he watched more and more arrows hitting the ground, alighting skeletons and rotting flesh alike, “Nock! Draw! Loose!” and the sky turned grey with the rain of arrows again, tiny spots of fire flickering in the wind as they flew.

Jon stepped out to the edge to see below. They were effective, but not effective enough. The fires lit by their arrows were trampled on quickly and extuingished, until new arrows found their mark, but wights began to reach the bottom of the wall in numbers.

“Pitch!” Jon shouted, and the barrels dropped almost in synch, fell and cracked at the bottom spilling their exploding contents. Arrows followed them, alighting their enemy who escaped from the large burning groups down below, then more arrows took to the sky. It took on a rhythm of its own, they just ran and ran forward and the wall offered them fire, fire rain in countless small arrows and fire exploding on them from barrels.

“We’ll run out of barrels, sooner or later,” Jon said, more to himself, as he stepped back from the edge to see. The pathway that was once full of barrels now was largely empty. He glanced at Jaime, who nodded and blew his horn.

Lions rushed forward from the side where the barrels have been, lining up, each with his hand on the pommel of his sword, as Jaime Lannister once more looked down north of the wall and shouted the commands, “Nock! Draw! Loose!”

“Jon,” Howland called out and Jon stepped forward. He was there now. The Night King sat on his horse, watching the events unfold, watching the wall. “Do you think he’s surprised?” Jon asked.

“None could tell,” Reed responded. “Perhaps one day you’ll have the chance to ask.” They smiled at each other a forgiving smile, what a funny time to joke and what a meaningless funny joke this was, yet it was needed, Jon felt it.

Barrels dropped again and Jon leaned out to see below, as arrows hit the remaining wights who escaped the explosions, and once more. In a long and steady line, fire ruled at the bottom of the wall. “Nock! Draw! Loose!”

“Jon!” Reed pulled on him and he fell back onto the pathway, along with Reed. A spear flew past above them, and Jon could see Jaime’s stunned eyes catching sight of it. “Seven Hells!” Jon cursed as he stood. “How on earth did they throw it this high?”

He stepped out once more, this time acutely aware of his own mortality as he took in the sight. A walker handed a spear to the Night King. “Stay back,” Jon ordered Reed. He wanted to see this, his gaze settled on his mortal enemy as the Night King looked up, straight into his direction. “Come on, you fucker,” Jon muttered to himself, “Try your luck.” And he did. Jon slammed himself against the wall, and the spear rushed past inches from his face.

“I guess my command post here is as good as lost,” he told Reed then, as he ducked and crawled back to the path, joining Reed who sat behind Jaime. He took a deep breath and stood, stepping forward.

“We’re done with the barrels,” Jaime noted as a matter of fact, without looking at Jon. Jon looked around, he could see the statement true all across the wall.

“They’ll begin to climb,” Jon answered, just as matter of fact, and Jaime Lannister draw sword at that. As if on order, the two lines stretching on the two sides from Jon’s lost command post, the lions draw dragonglass swords. They were crude, short and rough, but they were dragonglass, Jon thought, without fail, they were the weapons that could bring the finality of true death. Moments like these gave Jon that flicker of hope, every time he saw them, that perhaps, just perhaps they’ll achieve the impossible, they’ll beat them back. But he brushed away the thought. He knew better than to dream.

“Not yet, Ser Jaime,” Jon said, his hand on Jaime’s arm. “Wait.”

Jon leaned out to see that indeed, wights were climbing the wall, like countless spiders rushing forward. “Edd!” Jon shouted towards Edd Tollett on the left, “Release the Scythe!”

Jaime leaned out as well to see what this meant, and to his shock, an enormous pendulum ran past below him on a chain, cutting down both wights and great chunks of ice, before it turned and albeit slower, swung back to its original location.

“A bladed pendulum,” Jaime noted with eyebrows drawn high, nodding in approval to Jon.

“Aye,” Jon said, “Albeit it’s just steel. They’ll just climb back up, those that haven’t lost their limbs.” He turned to Edd, who nodded towards them. Jaime watched as the scythe was retracted, only to begin its journey again, mauling wights and ice alike. Jon stepped back and draw his sword.

“I hope you’re ready for some proper fighting, lions!” He shouted and Jamie allowed himself a silent laugh as his man roared. For a moment Jaime wondered what his father would think of this lion roar, the army he built and nurtured standing atop the wall with crude dragonglass short swords in their hands, ready to slay some dead men in defence of the North, as ordered by Ned Stark’s bastard, the king in the North. The thought went by just as it came, and Jaime settled with what he thought and felt. Pride.

“Switch!” Jaime shouted, and Edd repeated the command, just as the first wight made it atop. Archers stepped back sideways in union as the swordsmen stepped forward, cutting down any wight that appeared, until a break in the flow of wights. “Switch! Nock! Draw! Loose! Switch!”

Well, this was it then. Jon joined the line of swordsmen following command, beside Jaime Lannister, glancing aside to see Howland Reed and Edd do the same. Until they had arrows, they’ll now just do this. From whence they had none, they’ll all just use whatever weapons they had on them. What a difference it was from the poor attempt years ago, when Mance attacked the wall. Shivering boys atop praying to their Gods to allow them to see the dawn the next day. This was probably how the Nights Watch was intended to be. Perhaps this was how the Nights Watch would’ve fought in the old days when it was more than just a group of few hundred bastards and exiled criminals.

More and more wights reached the top, and more and more found their second deaths at the end of a dragonglass or Valyrian steel sword, before they fell back. The scythe worked, but Jon knew that as they run out of arrows, they won’t be able to draw it back and release it like this, at the same time as cutting down the dead that made it atop. And every time he could glance down below, he saw him, sitting motionlessly on his horse. It started to become a waiting game, and Jon knew the odds were on the sight of the dead. Even if they had years to prepare, the odds would be on the side of the dead.

“No arrows, Ser!” he heard the first report that he’s dreaded. Soon more and more reports of the same sounded, and Jon could see how on both sides, archers draw daggers, even steel swords to defend themselves. He could hear the scythe scratching below at longer intervals now.

Then it happened. A wight made it through, where Jon’s command post had been, and ran past all of them, likely with the intention to jump on the southern side. Yet as it did, it blew to pieces covering them with rotting flesh and clothes, bones hitting them with force.

“What was that?!” Jaime shouted to Jon, who searched for Reed with his eyes. Reed nodded, he’s seen it too, or more likely, felt its bones hit him. “The magic of the wall,” Jon responded. Yet his eye caught something below. They stopped the attack.

The fighting slowed, and ceased. There were no wights appearing atop the wall anymore, and they all breathed a collective sigh of relief. The men leaned back, taking to rest, some declaring victory and some laughing, but Jon was alert. This was wrong, so very wrong.

He motioned for Reed and Edd to join them on their side. “This is wrong,” he said sternly, and both men nodded.

“Have we not beaten them back?” Jaime asked surprised.

“No,” Edd said, “These fuckers never give up. Something’s coming.”

“Aye, something is coming,” Jon agreed, just as Reed, facing the north as they stood in their little circle, pointed downwards for them to look.

The Night King rode forth. He no longer had his sword in his hand, he had something else, but Jon could not make out what it was. He stopped ahead of his army, still so many that Jon could’ve never count them even if he tried. They all waited, eyeing each other, the Night King motionlessly looking straight to their position, and their little group and all their men staring down at the army of the dead.

A wight appeared on Jon’s command post. It stood there, steadying itself from its climb. Jaime moved to cut it down, but Jon held out his hand to stop him. He needed to understand what was going on.

“A messenger?” Edd asked. There were no weapons in its hand, as it stood motionless and stared straight at Jon, and Jon felt as if he was facing down the Night King himself. Perhaps he was, perhaps that’s how he controlled all these rotting corpses. Not unlike warging, Jon thought. He sighed as he registered that it once was a sworn Brother of the Watch, ragged black clothing hung torn from its rotting body. Jon hoped that he didn’t know the man who became this sad creature.

Suddenly, the wight ran forth, past their little group and past the stunned men on the other side, and jumped. As it left the wall and launched forward, it shattered, just like the one before during the fight, its bones and flesh thrown in every direction.

“Not a messenger,” Reed noted bitterly, “A test.”

“He knew of the other one then,” Jon said, turning back toward the Night King on the ground, and they all turned to watch. “He knows what they know, and sees what they see.”

“And knows when they die,” Edd added. 

“Aye, that is part of knowing what they know,” Reed nodded toward Edd, with a warm smile on his face. Jon raised his hand to silence them. The Night King moved, glancing back at his army, then up, straight at them.

What happened next was something Jon could’ve never prepared for. The Night King lifted his arm, and suddenly Jon saw what he held in his hands.

“Evacuate,” he uttered the word in disbelief as the realisation quickly dawned on him, but it was too late. The sound was soft at first, but as the winds carried it forward, it seemed to Jon that the wall itself echoed the sound, louder and louder until it became almost unbearable, the low, deep tone of a horn, echoed into a thousand horns at once. Then silence.

A moment passed. Then another. Then they heard it, nothing more than when one steps on frozen water and the thin ice cracks under their feet. They all looked down and saw the shallow crack swiftly rushing forth between them.

“Evacuate!” Jon shouted as loud as he could, “Evacuate, Now! NOW!” Edd ran back to his side, repeating the command, as they heard the horn sounding again, and Jon allowed himself a glance to see the Night King blowing that Gods damned horn, and as he turned and ran following the brave lions who just a moment ago surely tasted victory, he knew that the image was etched on his mind forever. The image of the Night King when the dead defeated the living.

***

Daenerys watched from atop Drogon as the battle unfolded. It seemed so easy, they fired arrows on command that she could hear, and while she could not see what they could see from atop the wall, she could see them steadily firing those arrows, and dropping their barrels. It seemed to her that this was so very easy. She watched a spear dropping on the southern side, and flew closer with Drogon to see Jon Snow just standing up in the path before she backed out. It didn’t hit him. Gods, they were good with those spears, a second one dropped on the southern side and she made a mental note to be careful. Those spears were dangerous to her dragons, if nothing else, while they were in the sky. She circled around, saw the Dothraki ready to launch, saw the spare horses awaiting behind them, before she turned back towards the empty Moles Town and towards the lines of unsullied, waiting behind trenches with firepits at the ready, burning. She circled back towards the wall as she reached the woodland, knowing full well that the Wolves were waiting under the trees just as the Dothraki, that her other two children were hiding among the trees behind their cavalry. She resumed her position and waited, watching as the men atop the wall switched places in rhythm, until the archers swung their bows to their backs and draw their weapons. They ran out of arrows. She watched as the wights appeared amidst roaring sounds that she couldn’t place anywhere, but the wights were all cut down. Another wave appeared, then another. Then one shattered right in front of Drogon, in the air as it jumped, much like they all jumped from the cliff at Hardhome to attack her. And then the wight attack ceased.

It made her uneasy as she circled back once more, taking in the readiness of those below and the wait atop the wall. She heard the men, small victory cries and laughter, but she knew she wasn’t alone in her uneasiness watching as Jon conversed with the commanders. A horn, but unlike any other, she thought, as her eyes registered that it wasn’t Jon blowing his horn, as it began to sound more like a hundred, no, a thousand horns all at once as the wall echoed its battle cry.

She heard Jon’s order to evacuate. She didn’t need to wait for the horn of the Nights Watch to sound three blasts one final time to signal the same, by the time she heard the signal she was circling back above the woods, her other two children taking flight. 

When did they lose? They had this, she could swear they had this, yet her sense of unease told her they never truly did, just as well as how they never truly had the chance to completely beat them back, and she couldn’t understand why suddenly Jon was evacuating the wall. As she completed her circle she could see the men running as if they were running for their lives, as if the deafening sound of a thousand horns echoing on the wall was the signal to flee or die.

But then she understood. The wall itself roared in response to the horn, cried as if in pain and it cracked, a large gash appearing from the entrance of the tunnel at the bottom rushing up high straight toward where Jon’s command post had been before. An ugly sight, like broken crockery if studied from close enough, but then the horn sounded again, and this time the wall cried along, not in response. Daenerys felt the dread overtaking her. The dead were to break down the wall itself. They weren’t to break through the tunnel, they were to march across the shattered pieces.

Shiver ran down her spine as she watched the greatest monument ever heard of shaking and shattering. The horns sounded still, albeit the echo was broken, the sound diminishing as the wall cracked and crumbled. Drogon flew to the side, as the earth began to shake. Dany glanced atop the wall, but it was empty, the men who ran for their lives were at a distance from where the cracks were now shattering the neat pathway at the top.

Then it began. The earth shaking with a deafening sound, the wall began to collapse atop what once had been Castle Black, ancient seat of the Nights Watch, an order as ancient as the wall itself, burying the stone towers and the wooden structures in chunks of ice and mist, for what seemed to Dany like hours as she watched.

And then it was over. The horn had long ceased its sound, the echo died out, for a long moment peace settled on the ruins of ice, mist slowly dissipating. It was an enormous gash where once Castle Black had been, as long as halfway to the next castle on each side as if the Gods smashed a giant hammer straight into the wall. They were not prepared for this. As Dany’s eyes took in the sight, she knew they lost this battle now.

She heard a beat, getting stronger and stronger, and turned toward the direction. Her heart melted at the sight of thousands of unsullied beating the frozen earth with their spears in rhythm. Soon enough, drums picked up the sound, the drums of the Wolves, and she could feel her heart lifted by their collective beat of the same rhythm. A call for battle. All was not lost. Dany watched, resolute, and waited, anger at what she’s seen boiling inside her in rhythm with her beating heart, with the drums and the spears below. 

There they were then, steadily marching across if somewhat slowly, a mass of rotting flesh and bones. They weren’t expecting what they’ll get, Dany thought, and she laughed, loudly, angrily, fueled by the fire burning inside. Burn them all. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned close to Drogon and took higher up into the sky, and she screamed, “Dracarys!”

***

By the time Jon reached the end of the steps and took his first step on solid ground, he could hardly feel his legs. On the run, atop the wall, he counted the men they lost, to his relief all of them burning already. Six. Only six, against one hundred thousand, and perhaps the same on the other side. That’d be only a dozen lost.

“Fuck magic”, Jon shouted aloud in his rage. “Fuck the ancient stories, fuck Joramun! Fuck the men and women of Westeros who allowed themselves to forget! They’ve just got one fucking hell of a reminder!” A panting Reed tried to put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, surely in an attempt to calm him but Jon wasn’t having it. Not now.

Jon ran toward the men, most of those off the wall were already mounted. Edric gallopped forth with a spare horse and Jon swung himself atop.

“The wall has fallen,” Edric said, his eyes empty. Jon just nodded, there was nothing else to say, but Edric reached out his hand to grab his arm.

“No, you have to know. It’s fucking fallen, they are crossing it by the hundreds. The dragons are burning them but they’ve already reached the trenches.”

“Then what are we waiting for,” Jon hissed. He took the horn and blew it. The howl that followed made him startle for a moment, and he laughed aloud in a raging sound of laughter like a madman. Then he blew it again. They all howled again, the Wolves. Jon rode forward, sinking the horn back onto its buckle on his belt, drawing his sword, never looking back.

As they cleared the woods, Jon swiftly understood what Edric meant by him needing to know. There was no Castle Black anymore. There was no wall anymore, just a long gash and a tremendous pile of icy rubble, dragons flying above it in circles, breathing fire, and wights emerging in numbers far greater than he could’ve ever anticipated. He lifted his gaze across only to see the attack on the other side to begin, Jorah - with Longclaw held high in his hand - at the front of the Dothraki horde swinging arakhs as they reached the mass of dead. And then Jon reached them too, and it was carnage.

 

Daenerys still kept burning the wights, despite Jon’s previous order to retreat when their attack began. Jon could see whenever he had a split moment to look up, and he could see that it was not enough. As he kept turning on his horse, circling around, cutting deeper and deeper into the mass, they kept crawling on, climbing, the horse kept neighing as they scratched through its skin. This wasn’t going to work, Jon thought, if he stays here, he’ll soon be under, his horse will be pulled under. His eyes searched for Edric, shouting his name. 

Long moments passed before Edric appeared next to him out of nowhere, and Jon had the freedom to blow his horn. Three blasts. Retreat. It was painful, so very painful, but he repeated the command, before they both turned towards the south trying to cut their way out of the carnage.

As soon as he was out of the melee he blew the sign of retreat once more, relieved to see that the men followed lead and left the melee to the side after him. He rode south, past the burning trenches and the lines of fighting unsullied, where his command was now repeated by Grey Worm, hopefully not for the first time. The unsullied turned and began to run down the kings road, toward Moles Town.

Jon halted his horse then, as he turned back. Dothraki were riding past him, and to his relief he saw Ser Jorah riding towards him, among the Lions and Wolves and Dothraki.

“We need to protect the Unsullied,” Jon said without lifting his gaze from the flight, knowing well that Edric stopped beside him.

“We also need to save as much of our supplies as possible,” Edric responded, “I’ve instructed the men to do it. We need our supplies to reach Last Hearth.”

“Ser Jorah,” Jon cried out as the knight rode past, and Jorah turned and stopped beside Jon. “We need to circle back, form a line behind the retreating unsullied and protect their retreat.”

Jorah shouted something completely inaudible to Jon, and Jon could only hope that it was a repeat of his command in whatever language the riders understood. The Dothraki behind him repeated it a few times as Jon still kept watching the retreat, trying hard not to allow himself to be overtaken by shame. He knew this was the outcome. He knew it all along, he knew that they’d never retreat beyond the wall if they got through, they never would’ve stopped breaking through. He knew that the living did what they could but still, he felt shame. A king’s shame who sat atop his horse watching his army retreat and his kingdom being invaded.

Suddenly Jon saw Dothraki riding forward on both sides, enclosing a circle behind the unsullied, as the two lines rode past each other. They circled and turned and repeated it. What a sight it was, anyone who would deem these riders primitive should have had one look at how arranged their attack had been, always one line in attack, one line in defence of the first, and repeat, as they cleared a gap between the retreating unsullied and the approaching dead. But Jon also saw them falling, heard their cries, just as he saw more riding in from behind him to fill the lines.

His gaze lifted onto the wall, where once Castle Black had been standing. He felt the rage taking over, an urge to ride in and smash them, kill them all, burn them all for what they’ve done. He looked, for long, and just looked to take it in, knowing full well what it meant for him. “You’ll fight their battles forever,” he repeated to himself. He will, now for certain he will.

“We have to go, your grace,” he heard Jorah, but remained motionless. Suddenly disbelief took control of every muscle in his body, draining whatever energy he had left, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Your grace,” he’s heard Edric’s voice, and turned toward him. He could see on the man’s face taken aback that his own expression must’ve been a clear mirror of the misery and helplessness he felt. “We have to move, your grace. Blow the horn.”

And he did, rather unconsciously, he blew the horn three times, just as the last of the unsullied passed them, and the Dothraki moved at once turning to his direction. He waited until they all rode past. A captain does not abandon his ship until the last man is ferried to safety, but he still had one more. His eyes settled on the black dragon, just circling back toward him. Daenerys slowed and looked down at him as Drogon lowered toward the ground.

“Go!” She shouted, “Go now!” Then both she and Drogon turned and she shouted the order, “Dracarys!”

Jon watched as the wights who were just a moment ago rushing towards them to close the gap the Dothraki won, became ignited in flames in an instant. Then he turned and rode as fast as he could, looking back to see the dragons breathing fire on the battlefield. He rode on, past the running unsullied, past the Dothraki who still faithfully protected them, past the lions and the wolves, until he reached the head of their column and Jaime Lannister shouting orders for an upcoming evacuation of their camp in Moles Town. Then he allowed himself to look back once more. Three dragons flew toward them. He watched as they flew past high above in the sky and circled back, as if guarding the train of retreating men. He took a deep breath as he looked back at the column, and rode on, trying to convince himself that it was over. That just as he knew he would, he’s lost, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors notes:  
> The horn of Joramun appears only once in GoT the series. As the story took the series as canon from season 1-6 (except where changes are included in the story) the horn has been found by Sam, Edd and Gren while at the Fist of the First Men, bundles in a cloak of the Nights Watch along with dragonglass daggers. They took great interest in the daggers, not the horn.  
> Considering this, it is assumed that they left the horn behind, threw it away or whatever.  
> The horn if based on the series is only a small warhorn. Also I can’t recall any description (series or books) of how exactly it’d bring down the wall - there was a great deal of imagination involved to try to bring it to life without references.
> 
> There are parts of the chapter which will appear explained in later chapters...


	20. The Gift I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys

“I swear we had this,” Jaime muttered, staring at the flask in his hand. When no one replied, he looked up, and around.

Yet what registered wasn’t their faces. The tent was sparse, it’s true. But they had a tent. Jaime never heard of such a thing, an army retreating, defeated on the battlefield, carrying its tents and its supplies.

He recalled his retreat. After the horn sounded, how he swiftly turned his horse from where he joined the melee – or more like, where he and his men tried to join the melee because, let’s be fair, it was more like the two metal jaws of a vice, squeezing the work in place. Jaime rode in to form part of the left jaw, and the ‘work’ was to squeeze the dead, to encircle them in front of the trenches. A fucking good plan, that was. As long as the jaws held the line, Jaime did realise soon enough as he slashed around him that they were relatively save. And it was Jon Snow’s plan. The king spent some time ranging beyond the wall, that much Jaime knew, and he assigned the elaborate plans to Jon’s experience.

Same about the supplies. Jaime rode ahead in retreat shouting orders until his throat ached, his mind racing and scrambling to think like the commander he was ought to be, to save their supplies – only to learn that Samwell Tarly already had the task. That the Wolves already had the task. Most of his commands were already on carts rushing forth to the south from Moles Town, waiting for the army to catch up with them.

That made Jaime think, and wonder, and just now, realise. Jon Snow must’ve known that the wall will fall. Jon Snow made his elaborate plans of retreats and evacuations, because he knew that his country will be overrun by dead men.

“We never had this,” Jon said just then quite flatly, confirming Jaime’s thoughts, and Jaime’s eyes settled on the king. He looked tired, his eyes were empty. He wasn’t the boy at all. He was a man, defeated. A king, defeated, his face spoke of that clearly. He kept leaning on the table – because, Jaime thought, Jon Snow’s retreating army had such things as table, chairs, hell even camp beds and cauldrons and maps and whatnot. His hand kept massaging his forehead, when not pulling back on those black Stark curls as if they somehow gotten lose from the bun he had on the back of his head. Like Ned Stark, Jaime thought. But a hundred times rougher than Ned Stark. And a hundred times better, too, perhaps.

“The question is, how many did we kill,” Howland Reed added. “If we killed ten thousand, that is good. If we killed forty thousand, that is excellent result.”

“I’ve burned thousands upon thousands of them,” Daenerys said, and Jaime glanced back at her. The queen sat in the corner of the tent, preferring to settle atop a chest. She looked pale, her eyes seemed to shine much dimmer. Perhaps that’s the look on all of them, Jaime thought.

“And we’ve cut down quite a lot. The unsullied got quite a lot of them, too,” Jaime added, feeling the need to emphasize the message he’s heard in Reed’s voice.

“Aye,” Jon looked up at him, a slight smirk in on his lips, “There was a point when I even enjoyed slashing them fuckers. Before I realised that soon enough they’ll be slashing me.”

“You went in too far in, your grace,” Edric noted, but his voice was void of any accusation. Instead, Jaime heard appreciation in them, and respect. “Something to learn from. Stay in the line.”

“I wanted to kill them all,” Jon muttered at that.

“We all wanted to kill them all,” Edric pointed out in response, “but we have to be smart about it. We cannot kill them all at once, there’s too many.”

“Was this always your plan?” Jon looked at Jaime, his deep grey painful eyes piercing his, “a war of attrition?”

Jon nodded silently. “I meant to lure them in. I knew we can’t hold the wall, not against a hundred thousand of them, I knew they’ll pull a trick sooner or later.” He sighed as he leaned back on his chair, “I couldn’t have imagined the trick they pulled, though.”

“What the fuck was that, anyway?” Jaime asked.

“The horn of winter,” Jon hissed, his eyes still set on Jaime.

“The horn of Joramun,” Edric repeated, his voice full of wonder, “By the Gods, I would’ve never thought it was real.”

“They blew the horn of Joramun?” Samwell Tarly spoke at once, his face so full of awe that Jaime chuckled at the sight. Nothing could damp this boy’s enthusiasm, he thought.

“I can’t think of any other fucking horn that’s said to bring down the wall, Sam,” Jon explained somewhat apologetically.

“What’s the story?” Jaime noticed how all of them settled their gaze on him as he asked, and he felt surely out of his debt. Perhaps he should’ve known.

“They don’t even tell these stories in the south anymore, do they,” Jon hissed.

“King Joramun was an ancient king beyond the wall,” Howland began. “Thousands of years ago, some even believe he was the very first king of the freefolk after the wall has been completed, and the Nights Watch was an honourable order of thousands led by Lord Commanders seated at the Nightfort. Back in the Age of Heroes. It is said the Lord Commander, thirteenth to hold that title, fell in love with a woman, with skin as white as the moon and eyes as blue as the shining stars at night. And he married her, forsaking his vows, and declared himself the Night’s King. They ruled, atrociously, from the Nightfort. The King of Winter, Brandon The Breaker, a Stark, allied himself with the King Beyond The Wall, Joramun to defeat them. Hence Joramun blew the horn of winter, to call forth an army of giants who at the sound awoke from the stone of the ground and defeated the Night’s King. And Joramund declared, the next time the horn is blown, it’ll bring down the wall itself.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow as he chuckled. No, he’s not heard this story before. But after what he’s just seen, an army of dead men and dead men on dead horses leading them, he could believe anything. Perhaps every ancient story ever told by wetnurses and bards alike was actually true.

“The horn was lost,” Reed concluded, “said to be buried with the very same giants.”

“Well, it surely isn’t buried anymore,” Jon said before he took a deep gulp from the flask in his hand.

“Perhaps that is why he waited for so long,” Edric noted then, “He knew where it was.”

“Or he got lucky,” Jaime said. “I don’t think he knew. You saw how he tested what you called the magic of the wall.” His eyes were on Jon, and Jon nodded silently.

“Aye, it looked as if he was figuring it out as the battle went on,” Reed thought aloud, “I don’t think he blew the horn knowing it’ll work. If he knew, he could’ve blown the horn at the start, why waste the army he’s taken years to amass. Their strength is in their number.”

“So he attacked,” Jon summed up what he’s heard, “and seeing that the magic of the wall held, and he could not cross, he gave the horn a try?”

Reed nodded. “I remember when I arrived at Winterfell, your grace,” he explained, “your brother and I were in conversation for a while by then. And he kept telling me, dead men are marching on the wall at Eastwatch. Yet they didn’t attack, they must’ve known that time was of the essence and they must’ve had the numbers after your fight at Hardhome. Something pulled them back, if they were to attack based on their numbers it would’ve been at Eastwatch as soon as they could before you could prepare, and the wall is there the weakest, with no settlements to the south for miles on end to alert the living if they cross. They pulled back to land, for something. Maybe they found the horn and went to retrieve it.”

“Bran said you found them at the Fist of the First Men,” Jon noted, his eyes settling on Reed.

“The Fist of the First Men?” Sam stood straight in the corner then, and for the first time Jaime saw panic on his chubby face. They all turned to Sam.

“I…” Sam began, “Well, Edd, and Gren, and I found a horn at the Fist, Edd do you remember?” His eyes were on Edd then, standing just beside Daenerys sat on the chest.

“Aye, we found a small broken horn when we found the dragonglass,” Edd nodded, “Well it wasn’t broken per se, it had the bone chipped off, and it had these carvings of mammoths and runes on it. Gren tried to blow it, it was freaking funny. But that horn made no sound. He threw it away. We thought it was some wildling relic.”

“You found it with dragonglass,” Edric said sternly, “and you threw it away.”

“No one knew what use dragonglass had back then,” Jon responded defensively of his friends, “No one knew until Sam slayed a walker with one and told us at Castle Black. And that was how many moons later?” He looked around them then, his eyes settling on Sam once more. Poor Tarly looked as if he was about to begin to sob like a five-year-old. “We don’t know for certain if that was the horn, Sam,” Jon said reassuringly, the amount of kindness in his voice startling Jaime. “There is no point lamenting about it now.”

Sam nodded, but regardless, a tear escaped his brimming eyes and swiftly ran down his face, before he just as swiftly wiped it off with his sleeve. Jon watched him with a sigh.

“That was uncalled for,” he said softly, turning to Edric. “We need to bind together, not drill each other over our decisions from years ago. None of us could’ve known.”

“We were just a bunch of stupid boys back then,” Edd lamented, “Gods, if we knew… but no one knew.”

“Maester Aemon did,” Jon whispered, and Jaime could see Reed tensing, his hand reaching for Jon’s. Jon’s gaze fell on the hand on his for a moment, and Jaime wondered what unspoken conversation went on between the two men. “But none of this matters now.” The king looked around at them with sad resolve in his eyes, his smile as honest as a Kings Landing whore saying ‘I Love You’ to the man who just paid for an hour.

“Some decisions do matter,” Jaime murmured, even he couldn’t have reasoned why, “some sins will always matter.”

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys called for him and Jaime turned to face the Queen, “If this is about my father…”

“No, it is not,” He said firmly, albeit his voice rang in kindness. “I don’t regret that, your grace, I would do it again. Your father…” He swallowed, “Well, your father was mad, truly mad like I’ve not seen a man before. And obsessed. I watched him burn men with wildfire, I watched him boil Rickard Stark in his armour over a cauldron of wildfire, as Stark’s son and heir pulled on the chain on his neck trying to reach the father he must’ve loved. He strangled himself to death by the collar of his neck as his father boiled like a rabbit over a camp stew. I cannot tell you the smell of it, your grace. He had caches of wildfire all over the city, and he was a self-righteous idiot.”

“Grand Maester Pycelle kept chanting, trust Tywin Lannister, trust your former hand, Tywin Lannister has come, Tywin Lannister will save the city. I told your father to wait for Rhaegar, I didn’t know Rhaegar lost on the Trident. But even if he didn’t, Rhaegar was disgraced in his father’s eyes because he didn’t like burning men alive. Your father opened the city gates and my father sacked the city, as I predicted. And I was standing there as he sat on that Gods forsaken chair of swords and kept telling his pyromancer, burn them all, burn them all….” He swallowed once more, the eerie silence of the tent registering with him as he stared at his flask. “I killed that fucker of a pyromancer, too. Your father would’ve burned alive the half million who lived in the city, the women and the children, regardless of where their loyalties lied. He just kept chanting as he stood from his damned throne of swords, burn them all, burn them all… so I stabbed him in the back, the Kingslayer that I am. I don’t regret it, even after all these years being spat upon, I don’t regret it. You see, I was a kingsguard sworn to protect the king. And I was a knight sworn to protect the innocent. I chose the innocent, your grace.”

Jaime took a deep breath, and it seemed to him that all of them followed his lead.

“What was he like,” Jon whispered, and Jaime glanced at him. It seemed to Jaime as if he regretted the question as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Who?”

“Rhaegar Targaryen,” Reed added, both their eyes on him. Jaime watched as Jon raised an eyebrow slightly shaking his head toward the man. He tried to find reason in the question but couldn’t. Perhaps they just wanted to know what could’ve been, he thought. Perhaps they wanted to know what kind of man would kidnap and rape the daughter of a lord.

“I wasn’t close to Rhaegar,” he said. “He didn’t like the court much, he was mainly away while my father was hand. He only returned when the troubles started with the king, and he kept sailing back to Dragonstone and leaving his wife and children behind. He wasn’t that much into that Martell girl, not at all if I am honest, that much was plainly clear. Barristan Selmy was closest to him of us, besides Oswell Whent and the Sword of the Morning himself. He's had his circle of friends, his squire, Myles Mooton his name was, and Richard Lonmouth, and then there's Jon Connington, too, but not me, they only told me... I was told he'd depose his father after he defeated the Stag just as he left for the Trident. I would've supported that. It seemed to me that he was a good man, as much as I could tell. I’ve heard stories that he used to sit on the pavement on the streets dressed as a pauper and he sang to the people. And then he took the money he collected and gave it away, to orphanages and the like. And he was damn good with a sword, but he didn’t seem to like it much. He didn’t seem to like the whole pageantry of being a prince that much, but then again, I didn’t know him well. He never spoke harshly to me and I never had reason to speak badly about him, that is all. It was quite unbelievable what he did, I didn’t see that in him.”

Jaime took a deep breath.

“I regret about your brother, your grace,” he said straight into Jon’s eyes. “If I could change one thing in the past, I would change that. I want you to know it. I know there is no forgiveness for it and I am not asking for one. I just want you to know.”

Jon nodded, seemingly deep in thought.

“Why did you do it?”

Jaime laughed aloud at that. Should he say? Should he not?

“Ser Jaime,” Jon said then, and it seemed to Jaime that his dark grey eyes were full of understanding. Of acceptance. “I am not asking you as a king. I am asking as a man sitting opposite another, with flasks in hand after losing a fucking battle. It’s in the past, and you can’t change that. I can’t change that. No one can, really.”

“He caught me fucking my sister,” Jaime whispered, more to his flask, and he heard the gasps in the room. He looked up, eyebrows drawn high, but he didn’t see judgement in Jon’s eyes. “And she kept going on about how he saw us, he saw us…”

“The things we do for love,” Jon said lowly, “Bran said those were your words.” Jaime nodded, taking a few gulps from his flask. It was out, and he didn’t feel regret, or fear, or shame. He felt relief.

“If we are talking about regrets,” Daenerys said, her voice merely a whisper as she stood and stepped to the table, looking at Sam on the other side.

“I have to tell you, Samwell Tarly, of mine,” she said. Jaime watched as her fingers held to the edge of the table, as if she wanted to gain strength from it and he wondered, what on earth could she have so heavy on her heart that it required a confession to Samwell Tarly, of all people. But then he knew.

“That was war, your grace,” Jaime said, louder than he intended.

“Yes, and no,” Daenerys said looking at him. “I saw you charging at me with a spear ser, and I saw you grabbed and pulled underwater before my dragon breathed fire on the horse you rode the moment before. THAT was war. What I mean to talk about, that was not war.”

All eyes settled on the Queen as she took a deep breath. “My Hand counselled me against it, but I wanted to set an example, because I needed to set an example. Or I felt I needed to, I felt it was necessary,” she began. “I captured your father, Samwell. I offered the captives a choice, bend the knee and join me, or die. He chose the latter.”

Jaime watched as Jon’s hand reached out and took Sam’s, squeezing it, as Tarly’s face sunk. The king had an expression on his face that Jaime couldn’t read. Did he know? But then his gaze lifted back to Daenerys and Jaime could see the sign of rage, that protectiveness and anger that he saw in Jon Snow’s eyes before when he ordered evacuation on the wall.

“Well,” Sam muttered, “At least then I can return to my home, seeing that my brother is Lord of Horn Hill…”

“Your brother stood with your father,” Daenerys whispered then. “That is what I regret, Samwell. That is what I would change, if I could go back in time. I would not burn your brother.”

Jaime shivered at that. She burned men alive, captives. Yet as she stood there, Jaime felt pity for her. He felt he had reason to kill her father. He even felt he had reason to mutilate Bran Stark, no matter how that reason rang hollow after all these years. But she, she burned her captives because they refused to bow and kneel on demand at the threat on their lives. That was punishment for honour. That was no reason, if there was even any reason to burn living breathing men alive with dragonfire, because Jaime could see none after seeing the carnage at Blackwater Rush. Yet she stood here, and confessed, and on her face sat nothing but regret and sorrow as she did.

“I don’t ask for your forgiveness Sam, because I don’t think there is forgiveness for it,” she whispered, “I just ask that you allow me to prove that I learn from my mistakes.”

Sam nodded at that. 

“If you don’t mind,” he looked down at Jon, still holding his hand. 

“Of course.” Jon released his hand, and Sam Tarly rushed out of the tent. Well, so much for them binding together, Jaime thought, as he watched the king sitting opposite staring at Howland Reed once more. Jaime’s gaze followed to the man sitting beside him, just in time to see Reed slowly shaking his head to the king. They had yet another unspoken conversation, and Jaime began to wonder what secrets they didn’t tell.

“Well, we are truly a group of people who have no reason to like one another,” Edric stepped beside the king and pulled out a chair to sit. “Perhaps we ought to end the confessions before someone boils over.”

“Nobody will boil over,” Jon said firmly, “Not in my tent. Not in the North.”

“But the North remembers,” Edric looked at the king, his face a mystery to Jaime.

“Aye, the North remembers,” the king said, “And the South forgets. If the South remembered, too, I am certain they could chant their own fucking list of endless grievances against the North, just as the North keeps going on about our fucking grievances, chanting that the North remembers.” 

Jaime chuckled at that. Wise words. Jon Snow may be young, but at times Jaime wondered about how this man lead. He was brave, he was wise. A king in the making, Jaime thought. What did Edric tell him outside Winterfell? He’ll be the greatest king that ever lived. It rang like a hollow praise then, perhaps even like a joke in its exaggeration, but now, Jaime wondered if it could actually be the truth.

“What a crazy fucking group you are,” Edd Tollett said then. “Jon, I wonder sometimes if you would’ve done better staying at Castle Black, away from all this shit. Aye we may have ended under a pile of ice rubble, but this, this shit is just crazy. If this is what you lords and kings and queens do, I am glad not to have been born to be a lord.”

They all looked at him then for a moment.

“What,” Edd asked, startled. “It’s the truth. You are all some Gods Damned fuckers, while the dead are hunting us, you sit here feeling sorry for yourselves for all the shit you’ve done to each other.”

Jaime wondered for a moment if someone will punch Lord Commander Eddison Tollett. But then Jon Snow laughed out loud and raised his flask, “To Dolorous Edd!” he said, and drank. And they all laughed, with a considerable amount of relief.

“So, what will our crazy fucking group do about the dead?” Howland Reed asked then.

“Edd is right, they’ll hunt us. We’re meat for their army, they’ll come after us,” Jon said, his eyes settling on the small map on the table.

“Perhaps we should move, march through the night,” Jaime noted.

“No,” Jon looked up at him, resolution on his face. “The unsullied have ran almost all day. They need rest. Besides, I don’t think the dead will be in a hurry.”

“Why?” Daenerys dragged a chair to the table and sat.

“Because their strength is in numbers, and it takes a while to group. They had an army at Eastwatch, and we know they could not have crossed, the wall stood there with all its magic. If I was him, I would wait for my army to be south of the wall, intact.” But then he looked at Howland Reed, “And I would ask you to confirm this.”

Reed nodded and sat back on his chair, his eyes flipped up. Jaime could never feel at ease with this… warging as he watched for long moments the motionless body on the chair next to him, head hanging back, white eyes staring at the roof of the tent.

He looked around the tent once more. They all seemed to study the map, seemed to, for upon closer inspection, Daenerys just stared ahead deep in her own thoughts. Jon Snow rested on his elbows, his head in his hands, fingers massaging his sculp. And Edd Tollett was staring at them, not the map.

Thy sat like that for awhile before they heard the gasp, and all looked toward Howland Reed. The man took a deep breath, shaking his head, returning into the here and now.

“You are right,” he looked at Jon with a slight smile, and pride, as much as Jaime could tell. “They are just standing and waiting atop the rubble. She burned everything around them, including our dead,” his head nodded toward Daenerys, and Jaime followed, but he didn’t see pride or achievement on her face, only resolution and focus.

“They didn’t cross at Eastwatch. As much as I can tell, they must’ve just stood there because they are marching along the wall on the northern side. And, the evacuation of the castles is ongoing just as you instructed.”

“Good,” Jon’s eyes returned to the map then. “I told them to group here,” he pointed at the map on an area under Eastwatch. “It’s woodland, helps to hide and there’s a village there. The others group at Queenstown and make it for Winterfell. I told them to avoid the Kingsroad until the Last River crossing, not to be so easily seen. They are lost to us now. But the freefolk and the Umbers, the unsullied who manned the castles under Edd’s command, they are all grouping under Eastwatch. We need a messenger to them.”

“And with what message?” Edd asked, “I’ll send Finn, he’ll know better than anyone how to avoid any dead men.” Jon smiled at that towards Edd before his gaze returned to the map. Edd walked to the entrance, leaning out for a moment before he returned to stand behind Jaime and Reed.

“We cannot fall back to Last Hearth, not just yet,” Jon spoke, seemingly more to himself as his chain of thoughts took the form of words. “They were to evacuate, we don’t know if that’s been done. We have to bid for time.”

“An open battle?” Jaime asked, but Jon shook his head.

“We’d stand no chance,” He said, matter-of-factly, void of any emotion, “They still outnumber us to what, 8 to 1? 7 to 1? No, we can’t risk an open battle.”

“Then what?” Edric shuffled on his seat to lean closer.

Jon didn’t respond. Jaime could tell he was deep in his thoughts, as if searching for an answer. He suddenly moved, and his pointing finger fell firmly on a spot on the map.

“Here,” he said resolutely. “If I learned anything from the freefolk, it’s that you have to make the terrain work for you. This here, is the path to Last Hearth, where it is surrounded by two mountain peaks, and flat cliffs on both sides. They’re somewhat hard to climb, I’m not sure of dead horses but surely, if there is no threat they would not ride atop the cliffs just to watch their own march, or I hope they wouldn’t.”

“Except,” Howland Reed interrupted, “how does the freefolk scout Jon, think.”

Jon looked up, “Ravens.” Reed nodded.

“Fine, but we also need to lure them in, we need to make sure they come that way. So, I don’t mind their dead ravens as long as we allow them to see us, here,” his finger slipped to the side just slightly, “right past the cliffs, where the path widens. We’ll set up camp there, at a distance, so the ravens clear the mountains to scout. We must allow them to see us and must shoot them down afterwards. We don’t want him to know the rest.”

“The rest?” Daenerys asked then.

“Aye, the rest,” Jon looked up at the Queen, and Jaime could see once more the man he saw commanding the wall, fire in his eyes, confidence on his face. “We’ll leave the horses on the southern side and climb the mountain, on the left. The message will be the same, and the freefolk climb the mountain on the right side. How many arrows do we have?”

“We’ve got numbers, but not dragonglass,” Edd reported.

“We don’t need the glass. We’ll rain fire on them. We’ll wait until they are under the cliffs. They’ll be fast, very fast. We need trenches to protect the camp, same as the unsullied trenches at the wall, as much as possible though we won’t have the time.”

“There’ll be a shipment tomorrow, of glass and pitch,” Reed said, “or perhaps even in the night, those Vale knights are tough, they ride down their horses through the night.”

“Then we’ll have to send men forward to stop them there, and start preparing, dig the trenches and line them with pitch instead of pikes. Work the glass on their weapons. Send forth anyone who has no dragonglass, it’s also safer for them then camping here.”

Both Jaime and Edric nodded at that, before they glanced at each other. “Ser Jaime,” Jon continued, “are you willing…”

“Hell yes,” Jaime said with a grin, “If you ask whether I’m willing to ride through the night, what of it! I can’t climb a fucking mountain with one hand, I’m set to be in that camp anyways.”

Jon leaned back on his chair.

“I want you two to separate your remaining forces,” he said, his eyes on Edric. “I want lions and wolves who are equipped to stay under Edric, same for the archers, those who have dragonglass swords are to stay. The rest are to depart within the hour and ride forth, halt the shipment and begin preparations under Ser Jaime.”

Jaime duly expected Edric to protest. But the man jut stared at the map, albeit for a long moment. Then he stood and offered Jaime his hand. So Jaime stood, only to realise he cannot take the hand. His golden hand could not grab it.

Edric burst out in laughter before he switched his hand offered, and Jaime took it rather relieved. Edric pulled him closer across the table. “Beware of the Wolves, Ser. They tend to howl a bit too much during the night.”

He looked around but all of them were laughing, so he laughed. Jon stood, once more standing straight, the king brooding over the loss of the wall was nowhere to be seen in him, as he spoke.

“This is the plan. Ser Jaime rides forth, prepares. Daenerys stays and protects our retreat. When we reach the camp, we’ll leave our horses and scale the mountain on the left, same for the freefolk on the right. The ravens will come, and we’ll hide in the woods, they can’t see us atop those cliffs. They’ll scout the camp and they must be shot down with dragonglass arrows. That’ll draw attention to the camp.”

“The dead will rush forth, you’ll see their storm approaching. We’ll wait until they are on the path, almost out, and we’ll attack. Daenerys will have to burn the path ahead, add another layer of defence in front of the camp, while we’ll close them in with a rain of fire, and we’ll have to aim to hit certain targets.”

They all looked up from the map, at Jon. “The walkers,” Jon said, “Edd said the wights fell when I killed the walker at Hardhome. Considering that, if we kill walkers, we annihilate large groups of wights. They’ll be on march so may not stand back, and if we see them, we must get them. Perhaps we do need dragonglass arrows…” He pondered for a brief moment in thought, “Yes, we do need dragonglass. We can grab that from the camp when we reach it tomorrow. We must hit any walker in the path, first. Then we have to hit the beasts.”

“Beasts?” Edric asked. 

“Aye,” Jon turned toward his commander. “There were mammoths living north of the wall, and shadowcats, bears, direwolves and the like. I kept thinking what was amiss at the wall. When Mance attacked he brought mammoths. I expected them to clear the forests of every kind of animal they could use, so I suspect they held those back. They’re no use scaling the wall, after all. I expected ravens and eagles and the like as well, and we didn’t fight any either. Perhaps they have them, perhaps they don’t. But we should expect them to attack us from the air that way, so we should be armed with sword and dagger to defend ourselves. An eagle attack is a fucking misery, if you look at my face you can see that for yourself.”

He turned back toward the table. “We’ll hit as much of them shits as possible before an attack scrambles, because the fuckers can climb the cliffs just as much as they climbed the wall. We’ll retreat and Daenerys will once more rain dragonfire on the rest of them in the path. Don’t go further than the path, just hit the path, hit the dead climbing the cliffs so we can retreat.”

“The camp has to be ready to move, don’t settle down too much. When they crossed Daenerys fire, only then should you light your trench, and by that time, we’ll be hopefully on our way back, and we’ll all retreat.”

All nodded then, and Jaime wondered what a fucked up, crazy war they were fighting now. He grinned. He felt in his elements, his blood began to boil in anticipation.

“A war of attrition,” he said, grinning at Jon. “Your grace, I like your plan. I like it very much.”

He bowed and turned to leave, looking back from the entrance. “See you crazy fuckers in that camp.” They all laughed as he left.

***

Jon sat at the table still. Edd was gone, to send out the messenger. Finn, Jon didn’t remember much albeit the name rang a bell, tall, blond, short haired, confident if not cocky young lad, a ranger.

Edric left after Jaime to sort out the separation of his forces and the departure of those who were to be sent forth. That went surprisingly well, considering how Jon expected both commanders to protest. Perhaps they understood now, that houses didn’t matter. Kingdoms didn’t matter either, Jon thought, nothing of that mattered. Even Aegon Targaryen didn’t matter.

He lowered his head into his hands once more, resting on his elbows.

“I take my leave now,” Reed stood, and Jon nodded without looking up. He heard the flap at the entrance fall back to position.

“You’re good at this, you know,” he heard her, looking up surprised that she was still in the tent with him.

“You should have some rest,” Jon said softly, looking up straight at Daenerys.

“You should, too” she said stepping closer to take the seat where Edric sat before, besides Jon, her hand on his shoulder. “Even you need some rest.”

Jon smiled at that. He didn’t feel tired, he felt his blood boiling, anger, revenge, rage mixing with the familiar excitement of a fight to come. Jon didn’t like the fight, didn’t like killing. But this was not killing, this was killing dead men, and he was eager to see it through, rather sooner than later.

“Did you always know that it’ll be a war of attrition?” She asked then, glancing at the map.

“Aye, I did,” he said, leaning back on the chair, feeling somewhat sorry for her hand to have left his shoulder, and surprised at the feeling itself. “I knew they’ll break through. I was hoping they can’t, of course I was, but that was never more than a dream. I was hoping they cross in small numbers enough for us to decimate them before we have to retreat.”

He sighed, his gaze falling on the location of Castle Black clearly marked on the map. “That didn’t work out as well as I hoped. Once we’re done, Westeros will need new maps.”

Dany smiled at the remark. “Westeros needs new maps anyway,” she said, “to mark your borders.”

Jon pondered on this. He didn’t want to talk about these things, not with her. But it lingered, always lingered in the air between them. “You mean to take the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms. I mean to keep the Independence of the North. How’s that supposed to work?”

He watched as she took a deep breath, her eyes settling on the map of the North, taking it in. “I don’t know, Jon.”

“Aye, it’s a bit of a conundrum,” he smiled.

“Can we not talk about it?” she asked suddenly, and Jon laughed aloud.

“I thought you want to talk about it.”

“I thought so too,” she said, smiling back at him, “But now I find, that I don’t. I don’t want to plan on what comes after defeating them, we need to defeat them first.”

“Aye, it’s a bad omen,” Jon nodded, “Planning ahead before a battle, that is.”

They sat for awhile in silence, looking at the map. Then she took his hand to hold it in her hands on her lap and Jon shifted on the chair to turn towards her, to face her.”

“I need your advice,” she whispered, and Jon found his free hand joining the bundle of hands on her lap without a thought of command to do so. “I need your help, I don’t…” she swallowed, looking down at their hands, “I don’t want to become like that. What Jaime Lannister said of my father, I don’t want to become like that. And when I think of what I’ve done, it feels like I’ve become like that.”

Jon leaned forward, his hand moving to her shoulder to soothe her.

“You are not your father, Dany,” he whispered.

“No, but who knows,” she didn’t look up. “’When a Targaryen is born the Gods toss a coin, see which side it lands upon.’ Have you heard that phrase before?” She looked up, straight into his deep grey eyes, her violet eyes full of sorrow. And fear. Jon could see it clearly, fear lingering in the sea of violet dusk of the sky. “It’s in our blood. We’re mad, my kind is just… we are either good or we are evil and there’s no middle ground. I need to find the middle ground, Jon, I can’t become like that.”

Jon just wondered on what he’s heard, as words didn’t come to him, registering the meaning of hers, what it meant for her. What it meant for him.

“You’re good,” she said, and Jon shrugged, breaking their eye contact with narrowing lips and guilt in his eyes, his gaze falling on his hand in hers on her lap. “No, you are, your people adore you, they would choose you and follow you any day because you earned their trust, and you make all the right decisions. How do you know what’s right? How do you separate the wrong from the right and take all the right steps, and…”

“That is not true,” he muttered, interrupting her, “It may seem so from the outside, but I can promise you, I’ve done plenty of wrong.”

“Not like me.”

“No, not like you perhaps,” Jon looked up, slight smirk in the corner of his mouth, “But I didn’t have three dragons.”

She smiled, finally, and Jon’s heart filled with gladness at the sight. “We all make mistakes, Dany. We all do. We all lie and cheat and abuse our power. It’s in the nature of all of us.”

She squeezed his hand then, “How can I make it right?”

“For Sam?” She nodded, her eyes eager, almost begging him to offer a solution, but he had none. “I don’t know Dany. I wish I did, and I would tell you, but Sam is a good man, a loyal man. You need to give him time. He’ll go to the camp and he’ll have time to mourn. And you’ll fight beside us like you did at Castle Black, and he’ll see. He’ll see you for what you really are. And you’ll never burn prisoners again, because you learned this lesson. Unless they are dead already, then burn them all.”

She smiled at that, wider this time, as her hand took to his cheek. “I am glad you came to Dragonstone, Jon Snow,” she whispered. “I am glad to know you. Thank you.” She placed a kiss on his free cheek as she stood, her hand gently brushing his skin as it left his face, before she walked past him and left the tent.


	21. Last Hearth I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: slight Jonerys

Cersei leisurely took the steps down, more and more crude stone steps until she reached the bottom. The two guards bowed, deeply, “Your grace,” they muttered. It still filled her with a certain kind of pride, what those two words meant now. No longer queen consort, no longer that miserable life next to that fat drunkard that Robert was, unbearable as he was. Not queen mother either, but those thoughts didn’t come to mind. She locked them away, as if there was a tiny wooden chest with metal locks somewhere deep in her memory, and now she’s thrown away the key.

The guards knew the drill. After all, she’s become a frequent visitor lately. And who could blame her? There wasn’t much else to do in the Red Keep. There weren’t many to talk to either. It was boring, oh so boring, her only entertainment being these visitations. She didn’t come too often though, in fact she came down here quite rarely compared to how much she enjoyed these visits. It’s safe to say that she literally could not stomach it, even though the days of her morning sickness were long past, this place could make her retch for half a day even. But when she came, when she had something to say, she felt it was worth it.

The guards opened the iron door in front of her, and she stepped in, holding the cloth she’s soaked in lavender oil in front of her face. Still, the stench was unbearable.

She looked at the source of it. The girl was beautiful, she truly was, big black eyes and curves to make any man crawl. But she wasn’t so beautiful now, was she. The body that laid in front of her was swollen, skin in shades of grey. She leaned closer to see and smiled to herself, yes, the maggots began their work, finally. She didn’t step close to it, whatever liquids a rotting body could muster were now flowing freely in the cell, mixed with the waste the other produced.

She heard the knock of the chair against the stone wall by the door and nodded a thank to the guard. This was her routine. She sat and waited. She didn’t mind the wait, once it’s over she’ll have to remove the cloth from her face and she’ll have to breathe in the unbearable stench, while she speaks. She leaned back on the chair and waited.

She always moves, sooner or later, and Cersei noted with a small grin that this was still true as she lifted her head to face the Queen. Oh, that rage in her eyes, that hatred, Cersei adored every moment when she could see it and take it in. Payback, it was.

“I see the maggots began their work,” Cersei said, flinching as the stench hit her, “It won’t be long now, really. Soon you’ll be able to see what your daughter was really made of. It’s unfortunate that it comes with the unpleasantries of all this…” she gestured on the floor between the woman whose eyes were piercing her and the rotting pile of flesh, “but Qyburn assured me, once the body drained all its liquids this will all stop as well. Soon enough you’ll be able to sit on a dry floor, you’ll only need to keep it dry yourself.”

“I would suggest you move to the corner, but I see you used it for other purposes,” Cersei noted nonchalantly, the pile of shit in the corner not missing her attention, “It’s a shame. That corner was of higher ground, now you’ll have to sit in these… fluids. Though I can see that you don’t mind, considering the state of your attire.”

“Do you need any assistance?” She asked, as if she actually cared. She was good at this, pretending to care was her second nature, nurtured throughout the long years of being Robert’s queen. “I mean, in the corner. You know I could ask the guards to help, perhaps lift your dress while you crouch there, I am sure they won’t mind? Unless you mind them seeing your naked backside as you… well as you do that. But considering what I know of Dornish bastards and your ways, I wouldn’t think that you do. You only need to ask, and I’ll order them to help you.”

What a folly, Cersei thought, as the woman’s eyes lingered on her, her mouth full of the cloth used to keep her silent, what a lovely little folly this was.

“I came to visit because I’ve had some news,” she said then, “News that you may find quite interesting, the bastard that you are. Though I am quite sad to be the bringer of bad news to you in such a hard time as this, but it is always better to know.” She pretended to be sorry, her sorry eyes settling to meet the woman’s burning gaze. She was probably going mad by now, Cersei thought, perhaps she can’t even fathom any of this anymore. But no, she could, Cersei could see that, the hatred and the rage in those black eyes were so very real.

“It seems that your Queen has forsaken you, my dear,” Cersei said, “I am so very sorry. You sit here waiting and hoping for her and her dragons to come for you, I am sure. But no, it’s not to be. She found herself a new bastard. And while I would lament her decision to leave you here, I must admit, her new bastard has certain advantages over you. He has a cock. He’s said to be quite handsome, you know in that rough northern kind of way.”

“Yes, my dear,” Cersei continued, registering in triumph that the pair of eyes on her awoke more and more, that the woman listened to her every word. “That Targaryen bitch you hailed Queen was here, not much more than a moon’s turn past, in Kings Landing. She couldn’t wait to rush north with all her armies and her dragons, not even sparing a single moment to ask after you, she was so eager to be by the side of this northern bastard. It’s understandable really. Which girl wouldn’t want the adventure of a monster hunt by the side of a bastard hailed the greatest swordsman ever lived? I’m sure you know all the songs about love, and damsels rescued by valiant nights. Marcella used to love them so much when she was a child. Your Queen is off to live like the ladies in the songs with her own handsome bastard, hunting monsters in that grey waste of the North.”

The woman broke eye contact then, her gaze fell to the ground. There it is, Cersei thought. She was right, again. Ellaria Sand was hoping, she was offering those silent prayers to whatever Gods would listen to her, for the Targaryen girl to come. Her lips curled into a triumphant smile as she stood.

“I would tell you not to lose hope, after all, what do we have without hope?” She said softly, “But she won’t return. I wasn’t certain when, but you see I cannot let some foreign bitch fly around on the back of her pet dragons over my Capitol and my Kingdom, just as much as I cannot let any bastard to believe that they have the right of claim on my kingdom. I didn’t allow that to you and why would I treat her northern bastard any different than you? Now is time for me to ensure that that the saviour you so longed for doesn’t return. Now, I have the means.”

Ellaria Sand lifted her eyes once more. Cersei could see, the rage, and the hatred there, but there was something else. There weren’t tears, there was no sobbing, she was way past that, albeit much to Cersei’s regret – she used to be more entertaining back then. But it was there, in the blackness of her eyes, and Cersei could now see it. See that she broke her.

She walked toward the door, but looked back in her usual fashion, “Euron Greyjoy sends his regards, by the way,” she said with a smile, “I’ve just come from meeting him at the docks where he disembarked my twenty thousand fresh troops. And elephants! Gods, have you seen an elephant before? It is a marvellous sight. There are dozens of them, perhaps when they return after dealing with your bitch Queen, I’ll keep one to myself. As a memento.”

“I must go now I’m afraid. A Queen doesn’t have much time to spare.” What a funny lie, Cersei thought to herself, “Ruling seven kingdoms is a weary work of long hours, I just wanted to make sure that you are all right. Until next time, my friend.”

And with that she stepped out of the cell, and rushed away on the corridor, a guard behind her. At the steps she turned. “Make sure you keep feeding her with whatever you are feeding her. Just keep stuffing it down her throat, I don’t care how. Keep her alive.” With that, she turned and rushed up the steps, hoping she’ll make it out to fresh air before she’ll become unable to hold back the urge to retch.

***

Jon stood behind a tree and watched as a flock of ravens flew past. They didn’t look particularly different from any other flock of ravens. Not until one of them turned its head slightly, scanning the cliff where he and his men hid behind the trees motionless, and Jon could see the same icy blue shining eyes that all the dead had. He took a deep breath. The plan was in motion.

They watched in the distance as the ravens circled, and as arrows found their marks in them. But not all of them. One escaped, then another, flying back in a straight line from whence they came. No plan can work perfectly, Jon thought as he motioned for the men to move, to rush out and settle on the cliff, laying down on the cold icy stone. They all began brushing snow all over them. It wasn’t much but from high above the sky, it was still better than their armour-clad figures. They’ve left their cloaks behind, they’ll need that to warm themselves during the retreat. Jon just hoped the boiled leather will hold their body heat for long enough to reach the camp, even after laying under snow. But he knew they won’t lay here for long. The storm was already brewing visibly to their left, moving closer and closer. And under it, they were rushing forth, he knew. He said a silent prayer that this will work.

In the end they decided not to use fire, they’ve had so many dragonglass arrowheads in the shipment that what little number of arrows they had could be fitted. It was for the better, they would’ve struggled to keep the arrows dry under the snow while they waited and then to alight them. It was a weak plan. But for once, something worked without a plan, and Jon was glad that it did.

There they were. The storm lifted above the cliffs just as Jon expected. They didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry. They were just walking, in tight groups. And there were walkers, on horseback. To Jon’s shock, there were other things too. Mammoths, bears. He couldn’t see direwolves and his heart eased at that, but shadowcats walked with the wights.

Jon glanced ahead in the distance, waiting for the signal, for Dany to take flight and burn the path ahead, locking them in. They still didn’t fill the path, they were taking their sweet time Jon thought, as if the land was theirs. It wasn’t theirs. It belonged to the Nights Watch. It’ll never be theirs, if Jon could help it.

Finally, it seemed they are reaching the end of the narrow path. Jon felt the slight movement, and knew the earth shook somewhat down below. Drogon took flight. Soon enough the dragon emerged with Dany on its back, and just like that, in its first flight it breathed fire crossing the path as it came out from between the mountains. The other two dragons followed.

“Now!” Jon shouted, and their archers jumped as one. Jon nodded with a smile to see the other side, to see Tormund, the freefolk and Umber men stand and fire just as those beside him did, lines of men appearing all along the long cliff edges on both sides. He watched as it unfolded, as the arrows hit marks. A walker dropped from his horse and wights across the path fell. Jon laughed aloud. Mammoths, shadowcats, bears fell, as arrows found their marks. It was working, Jon’s heart pumped in his chest in triumph. “It’s working!” he shouted watching another walker drop in the distance, now truly dead, and wights around him falling like the lifeless corpses that they were meant to be.

He heard the noise from the north. Gods help us he thought, birds were approaching from the north. These were not living birds, they separated in two columns. “Swords! Protect the archers!” Jon shouted as he drew his sword, and then they were on them, the archers falling on their knees to allow movement above their heads as they kept on firing down the path. Jon cut off a raven, before he fell on his knees as well. He needed to see. He needed to know when to end it. His eyes caught side of two men on the other side battling an eagle, that seemed to him more of the equivalent of a giant to men in size. One of them fell with a cry, to Jon’s shock quickly disappearing among the wights. And then they began to climb.

Jon blew his horn, three times, and just as they started they moved as one, ran back from whence they came while some still battling the wights that made it to the top. As he reached the treeline he looked back just to see the silver dragon flying above the path breathing fire on them. He turned, and he ran.

It took considerable time to escape the mountain, while the shrieks of wights kept filling the air. The birds weren’t on them anymore, they were around the dragons. Jon looked on worried as they were circling around Daenerys, but he couldn’t change the plan now. She was up there in the sky, there was no way to protect her. He blew the horn again, as he swung atop his horse, and they rode as fast as the horses could carry them toward the camp.

As he reached the camp, he noted with relief that the word didn’t describe the place anymore. The unsullied were way ahead, as planned, and those who stayed behind were all mounted now, ready to move. He glanced back only to see that Daenerys was still burning wights. They were atop the cliffs now, taken over the high ground where Jon and his men stood tall to ambush them, and they were running along the path of their escape.

“We have to move!” Edric shouted from afar to Jon, and Jon nodded, but didn’t move.

“She didn’t hear the horn!” he shouted back, just as Howland Reed appeared next to him. He blew the horn once more, but he knew he’s too far away, if she didn’t hear him at the edge of the mountain she won’t hear him now. Dread filled him as he saw a spear launched, and Drogon swing to one side to evade it.

“We have to go, Jon,” Reed said to him then and Jon turned.

“Go,” he responded, “Go now! GO!”

Edric, on his way to them, heard the command and turned, and Jon blew his horn one more time to convey it to all the men. The sound of horses picked up, as the men behind Jon retreated, as he watched the spears flying in front of him, aiming at Daenerys and her flying children.

“Rhaegal!” Jon shouted then, not because he thought it’d work, but merely in desperation. He blew his horn again, but he could tell that she didn’t hear it, he could see that she focused on burning them on the cliffs and in the path while staying alive. “Rhaegal come to me!”

He watched as the green dragon shot up in the sky and began to his direction. Finally, Dany saw her child flying toward south, and followed suit. Jon turned, begging the horse silently to run for its life. The dead were off the mountain, rushing toward him.

He was behind, way behind from his men. He could make out where they were ahead of him but could not see them, they only looked like a condensed storm of snow blown up high from the ground in the distance in front of him. He could hear the shrieks behind him, too, and knew they were close. They were fast, incredibly fast when they wanted to be. Jon saw the dragons circling back ahead and flying past him and felt the warmth of fire on his back as they began to protect his retreat.

Jon couldn’t tell how long it took for him to finally catch up with the men, but when he finally did, and the dragons flew overhead, the men cheered. He rode past the columns of riders, to the front, to find Edric and Reed and Ser Jaime, and only slowed the speed once he found them. His mind kept wondering if it was worth it. They had the advantage before of being days ahead, but now they gave up that advantage. From now on, this was a true retreat, and Jon wondered if they could’ve made better use of what they had.

Finally, they caught up with the long column of unsullied marching. Their horn sounded, and the columns began to run once more. They had to put as much distance between them and the army of the dead as they could. It amazed Jon, it really did, how these men who trained to kill all their lives, ever since they could walk, were capable of running for hours upon hours. But they did so from Castle Black and they did so now. As long as the horses could carry the men, the unsullied would run beside them, somehow Jon was certain of it.

Riders appeared in the distance ahead and Jon once more rode ahead, Edric following his lead.

Knights of the Vale. Jon stopped as they reached each other. There was no time to report, but Jon learned as much as Bronze Royce sending them to see why those carrying the last shipment didn’t return in time. And he could see on their shocked pale faces the effect of learning that the wall has fallen, that the army was retreating in haste. Looking ahead, he could make out the Last Hearth in the distance. They had to reach it before nightfall.

***

“I should’ve sent messengers ahead,” Jon said, his fist hitting the table. Those few in the hall who stood around that table knew better than to speak. “I should’ve warned you to leave this accursed place already, but I ordered you to leave, what’s taken so long?!”

Among the men stood little Ned Umber. “My gran, your grace,” he muttered the words with some hesitation, “My gran refuses to leave. I told Lord Royce to leave but he refuses to leave without me, and I could not leave without gran, your grace. I am sorry, I really am…” the boy sobbed, fighting the tears of fear. To him, Jon was the good king of all the stories he’s ever heard, and now, the good king was scolding him.

But Jon understood. The boy lost family in Robb’s war, and lost the rest of it in his. He was but a 10 year old carrying on his shoulders all the worries and responsibilities of a lord in time of war, and he’s done so admirably. He couldn’t give up on his last family and Jon couldn’t fault the boy for that. 

Jon’s face softened. “Gran must be a hell of a northern lass,” he said with a slight grin he forced, for the boy's sake. “Take me to gran, let’s see which of us have bigger balls.”

Some of those present chuckled as the boy turned, and the posse began its way through the corridors, all the while Jon and Royce giving commands to guards, knights of the Vale and Wolves. They were to leave this place, tonight. As much as Jon hated the thought of sending them out into the wild, he had no choice. There wasn’t a day between them and the army of the dead. For a moment as he stepped through the door behind the boy, he wondered if he just lost this war. If his little ambush and his lack of foresight to send a messenger ahead has lost him this war.

Gran was old, very old, Jon thought, and obviously bed ridden, too. And sickly, she kept coughing, and as Jon stepped close, he could see the linen in her shaking hand was covered in patches of blood. Judging by the stale air, the windows covered in thick linen and the smell of waste, she’s been laying here for some time, too. Her skin hung on her arm, not much more than joints and bone as it shook the linen to her mouth to address each bout of caugh. The old lady wasn’t going to survive this war, whether the wights took her or not.

Jon looked back at the men, at Edric, his head motioning toward the boy, and Edric understood.

“Come along, little lord,” Edric said with a pretence laugh as he took the boy in his arms, “you ought to show us what else is to be done. You’re the lord of this keep, give us the orders then.” He walked out with the boy without further ado.

“Leave, all of you,” Jon said lowly, harshly. They all rushed out of the room as he could tell, his eyes never leaving the frail body in the bed. Jon sat down and took her hand, when the steps in the room ceased.

“You are the king in the north then.” She said, making a vain attempt to sit up, so Jon leaned and pulled her up on the pillow.

“Aye,” he said softly.

“You have Stark eyes... Do you see why I am not leaving this place,” her eyes were stern, so stern they could cut into Jon’s core.

“I do.”

“I told that foolish boy,” she said then, interrupted by yet another caugh, “I told him to leave me. Whatever these dead men are like, what can they do that won’t be done anyways.”

Jon sighed at that. “They can make you walk again, until all your flesh rots off your bones. They can make you fight that little boy, perhaps even kill him,” he whispered.

The old lady suddenly grabbed his arm with her free hand, her strength startling him. “Then you do it.”

Jon felt the blood rush in his body, his skin crawl, his heart rise in his throat. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, silently taking in what those four short words meant to both.

Jon leaned forward and took the bucket from under the table beside the bed. The smell of human waste turned his stomach, as he’s dragged the bucket close. He gently lifted her arm to hang above the bucket.

Then he swallowed, took a moment, pressed his eyes closed as a silent prayer to the Gods to forgive him for what he was about to do rushed through his thoughts. He glanced up once more, and she nodded, her face resolute. She was ready to die a long time ago. Jon took his dagger, and cut through her wrist, his other hand locking fingers with hers.

He’s sheathed the dagger and took her free hand. They were silent, Jon cursing himself to be damned all eternity, wondering if they could’ve taken her, if they could’ve saved her, if there was any other way, even though he knew there wasn’t. Then his thoughts fell silent. He watched as blood gently flowed into the bucket in a thin, steady column, his eyes fixed on the life flowing away at his hands.

“Thank you,” he heard her whisper and looked up. A tear rolled down her heavily wrinkled face, as her eyes settled in his. “Thank you for letting me die in my home.”

It didn’t take long at all. Soon she drifted off, and Jon let go of her hand, his fingers taking the wrist to lay the uncut hand on her body. He could still feel a barely-there pulse, the sign that she was still there, about to depart. He stood, for a moment taking in the sight. Gods forgive him, he thought.

He turned only to see Daenerys standing by the footboard of the bed. Whatever was on his face, whatever emotions he couldn’t hide in his eyes, they compelled her to rush to him, to hold him, and Jon didn’t feel strong enough to resist. He wrapped his arms around her as she did around him, burying his face in silver hair.

“I shouldn’t have…” he whispered.

“You had to,” she responded, parting from him to look into his eyes, as her hands cupped his face. “You had to, because the other option was far worse. She had a choice, it was her choice.”

Jon stepped away from her then, walking toward the door. “I’ll tell the men to build a pyre. We ought to burn her body before we leave.”


	22. The Long Lake I.

Jon stood still, watching as the flames reached higher and higher. He couldn’t see the body anymore, but it didn’t matter really, old Gran Umber’s face lingered in front of his eyes regardless. The resolution in them, the silent determination, the feeling somewhere deep in his core as if the old lady’s very being became his own. He felt old, frail, with a will so typical to those of the North, to have it his way. And he felt the shame of it too, what he’s done. He knew it was right, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t sting.

They’ve told little Ned that they’ll take Gran with them, in truth, Edric told the boy that. There was no point in trying to explain him that his only family left has been deemed to be an unresolvable burden in literally a blink of an eye. Jon didn’t look forward to arriving at Winterfell at all, to see the boy’s face, to have to tell him. And in truth, while he hoped that he’d arrive at Winterfell and perhaps the boy would already be off toward White Harbor, he knew that he’ll see the boy way before that. Wishing it otherwise was like wishing the dead arrived at the Last Hearth and well, dropped dead as if their mission was complete and from now on, everything was rosy.

They had, what, a day? Perhaps less? The Last Hearth has been prepared as much as it could be. Bronze Royce worked with what he had, dug the trenches, lined them with pitch, pikes in the ground in front of them. Jon didn’t have the heart to tell the man that while he’s correct, this is how one prepares for a siege, those wooden pikes meant precious little against the dead. Arrows were brought up from the stores and many had been duly prepared, either with cloth and pitch, or with dragonglass arrowheads. That was good, they needed arrows. They had none left after the ambush on the path.

Jon kept wondering how many they’ve killed. Edric reported 120 dead, all from the battle at Castle Black, and Jaime Lannister had lost about a hundred. Dany swore to have burned them all and all the dead south the remains of the wall before the dragons retreated. They’ve not lost a single man during the ambush, the Umbers however lost one, the young lad who fell from the cliff in front of Jon’s eyes.

This side of it amazed him really. So far, they’ve not been providing new meat to the army of the dead save that Umber lad, that much was true. His greatest fear, that this whole fight-and-retreat approach will cause him more loss than gain, that wasn’t true. But they were running out of advantages.

How many could’ve filled the path between the cliffs? Jon figured that they’ve got a couple thousand atop the wall, and the same below it, same for the unsullied. No one could tell how many Dany burned at the wall. Even if one dragon attack got only 50, she’d still be around 20 thousand at the least. Jon added to that another ten thousand from the ambush, along with the retreats, he’s figured they were at around 30 thousand. They estimated the army of the dead at hundred thousand based on Bran’s visions and Dany’s scouting flight to the North. That meant they still had to defeat twice as more than the amount they killed.

It bothered Jon. If only they didn’t have that accursed horn, if only the Wall didn’t crumble and fall like it did, if only he could’ve been right in his expectation that they’ll cross through a much narrower path, their numbers would be much lower now. And a smaller army of the dead was easier to defeat.

Jon sent Bronze Royce and his knights to guard the refugees, and sent every fighting man without horse with them as well. Even the unsullied were gone. He thought it better this way, despite how Grey Worm assured them that the running wasn’t an issue, Jon wanted to preserve strength. Edric agreed - they don’t need a large force to defend a small keep such as Last Hearth was, but they needed to be able to retreat fast, and they’ve proven that on horseback, they could outrun the dead. Not to mention, the amount of fighting men now marching to Winterfell with the Umber smallfolk and their carts reassured Jon. It was dangerous, if they were ambushed, but it also provided a small chance, besides how those very fighting men could enforce abandoning those carts and a run. Or, as Jon thought at times, he’s added them to the army of the dead. He hoped he didn’t, he hoped with every piece of him that they’ll be safe. He didn’t really believe it though.

Little Ned Umber was now marching south to Winterfell ahead of their combined armies. The boy’s eyes shone with pride and excitement when Jon asked him to ride ahead of the army with Bronze Royce, seeing that he’s the ranking Lord. Jon thought of the day when Sansa fought him to take away Last Hearth from the boy, and he was glad he didn’t. That boy will be loyal to House Stark for the rest of his life. Jon hoped he’ll live a long life, but he didn't believe that either.

The pyre collapsed in front of him, just as Edric stepped beside him, his hand on Jon’s arm.

“You did the right thing, your grace,” He said kindly, and Jon lifted his gaze from the pyre.

“Tell that to Ned Umber,” he whispered, “I doubt he would agree.”

With that he left Edric and made his way to the chamber he’s had prepared. He craved sleep, he needed it. And perhaps, just perhaps, if the Gods are good, if he’s exhausted enough, he won’t be troubled by nightmares this night. He wished he could believe it, recalling old gran Umber’s face in his head.

***

Dany stood on the rampart between two guards, staring out into the darkness. The first signs of the day approaching began to filter through on the horizon, yet in the sky, it was still complete blackness pierced through only by the pale starlight, like countless gems on black velvet. Somewhere, in this frozen wilderness, they were marching towards them. They were taking their time, she thought. A whole day and night have passed since the refugees set out in the night, but they were out there, inching closer with every moment. It wasn’t long now. The thought made her heart fill with dread. She often thought about it these past days, how a few moons ago she was aboard a ship, at the head of hundreds of ships, sailing to Westeros to reclaim the Iron Throne. Years in the making, betrayals and tribulations past, she still remembered how it felt to stand and watch as the first of the unsullied reached the shore in their dinghies on Dragonstone. She could recall the sight as they returned to the beach, waving the flag that it was all right for her to come ashore, and how her heart brimmed with emotion as she sat in the dinghy herself, as she stepped on dry land after months at sea. She recalled the touch of the sand, the stone path, how the enormous double gate creaked as it was opened in front of her. The first sight of the fort built by her ancestors, in every detail recalling Targaryen heritage and values. Power, Strength, Dominance… Fire and Blood.

It didn’t feel like home. It was cold and dark, the walls covered with carved dragonheads, the constant sound of dripping water and the damp smell of sea. It wasn’t the homecoming she imagined it to be. She wondered while on Dragonstone where home really was, what it was supposed to be like and what she’s expected. Her thoughts kept returning to when she was nothing more but a little child, and Viserys was still the lovable older brother. They lived in the house where in the front of the entrance stood a lemon tree, and the door was painted red, and the sun was always shining. She recalled it as much as she could in these past weeks, and she had to conclude, that was home. That was what home felt like, tranquil and bright and simple.

The days spent on Dragonstone could be classed as anything but simple, the time she’s spent with constant planning, theorising, listening to all the clever words of her clever advisors. And going against their advice.

Dany wasn’t blind. She could see that Varys wasn’t happy with how events were unfolding, how Varys became more and more silent. It was a loss, the eunuch could’ve been a great asset in this war, she thought, and she couldn’t understand how someone who stood up against her claiming he served the realm and the “common people” could turn his back on the fight against the greatest threat to the same people he claimed to serve. Tyrion however, he understood. It took a little time, for sure, but Dany felt that Tyrion finally understood why she had to come North.

And now that she was here, things became simple once more. When she wandered the Red Waste with the remains of her Khalasar, things were simple. Find water, find nourishment, or die. Find a settlement or die. Reach the end or die. In Qarth, things were simple, too. Find her dragons, find those who betrayed her, find justice. In Astapor, it was a simple trick, easy to execute and she had an army. In Yunkhai, she didn’t need to do more than to be there, to inspire, to give hope, to take a stand. She was good at taking a stand, at teaching a lesson of justice. Burning the khals was a necessity – their khalasars needed to see them defeated, and Dany being victorious for them to follow her. Only in Meereen were things becoming too complicated. Political marriages versus lovers, pacifying factions, locking up her children… these were hard decisions and compromises. Questions such as, did a slaver deserve a fair trial, and if he did, was his killer committing a crime if knowing well that the slaver would be sentenced to death – and because he was killed without a trial, was his killer now entitled to a trial himself? – these questions weren’t easy. But Dany wasn’t stupid either, she understood – ruling isn’t easy. It’s one thing to conquer, and she was good at conquering. But it was a whole other thing to rule, when decisions weren’t made by armies and battles and rebellions ignited by her presence, but she had to make those decisions, and live with the consequences.

Here in the North things were easy. She had the inkling that even if life weren’t reduced to the ‘live or die’ war against the dead, things would be easy. A man’s home is a man’s home, bannermen serve and granaries must be full. Winter is here, Jon Snow is king. It seemed to her that the North took what it could change and changed it to its preference, and accepted what could not be changed, but if there was one thing the North never accepted it was not having free will. Southern rule or an army of dead men, the North would stand to protect its free will, its independence. Slowly, she grew to see it for what it was. It wasn’t even about who was king, as long as the king understood this concept. Jon Snow understood, Dany thought. The North wanted its leader to stand for this concept, so Jon Snow did. Dany wondered at times if Jon Snow agreed with the concept itself, or merely went along, but for her, he didn’t seem like someone who took power for the sake of power. It seemed more likely that he took on the role of king because of the very same concept, and power presented the ability to lead in fulfilling this concept. Resist outside interference, whether it’s the Iron Throne or the Night King himself, resist it. It could be anyone, Dany could see that now, and they would resist it.

She often thought about the impact the recent wars had on the North. She didn’t ponder on Jon’s reasoning about trade and famine, or even viewing trade decline as a direct result of accepting an outside rule above them. From her perspective, it was a natural conclusion of becoming something bigger, better – the Seven Kingdoms united as one Kingdom to be more powerful, and as a consequence, or downside, closer ties to the South. The North may have underplayed what they won when they became part of the Targaryen kingdom, but Dany saw it. But recent events highlighted the downsides. The Targaryens murdered a Warden of the North, and his heir, the future Warden. Then the Lannisters murdered the next Warden of the North. It wasn’t much different from that perspective, but it proved the concept that it really had no matter who was the outside ruler, the North would suffer. No wonder they didn’t accept anyone, even if they needed to be part of the ‘whole’.

While she asked Jon Snow not to talk about it, she wondered a lot about what will happen when they won this war. She couldn’t allow herself to wonder what happened if they didn’t – the image was just too hard to bear, to consider as possibility. They had to win, they didn’t have any other choice. This meant also that it didn’t matter what winning took, because if the other option would be complete annihilation, survival is the only option to take, no matter the cost, she reasoned. But if the cost didn’t matter, why didn’t Jon Snow kneel? Apart from the fact that Dany could see now, Jon Snow didn’t consider this the only option and she herself has proved him right, if it came to it, if it was a choice between every last northerner marching in the army of the dead or kneeling and nothing else, they would kneel. Jon Snow was wrong at that – because people, Dany thought, would always chose survival for their children. No amount of stubbornness and pride would change this fact, Dany was certain. She was certain because if she was given that choice that one time, she would’ve given anything. She would’ve given the Iron Throne, she would’ve given her life - she certainly would’ve given her status. She wasn’t given that choice.

Perhaps once she thought she would’ve presented Jon Snow with this choice, when the situation grew desperate enough, she pondered on it quite a lot on the march North and especially on the march to Winterfell after she was bound by what he called guestright. But then she’s seen what it was like to watch this country overrun by the dead and she wasn’t so sure now, not at all in fact. It seemed to her like stabbing Jon Snow in the back, quite similarly to how Jaime Lannister stabbed her father in the back, albeit not literally, but it would’ve meant the same result. She still thought about it at times when she wondered what she would do once this war is won. How would she convince Jon Snow to fight beside her? And with her vow not to attack Jaime Lannister on Northern soil, what would Jon Snow do if she did? With Jon stating that he was but a man with little power to prevent it, if Dany did follow through with her plan, would Jon Snow really turn his armies against her? Dany couldn’t tell. Jon was honourable, and seemed to truly live by his word, as far as she could tell. And because she couldn’t predict his actions, she couldn’t decide on hers.

One thing she knew was that there was no chance of leaving the North without conflict. How would that work? They march south side by side, cross the Trident then turn against each other as soon as they are on the other side? And what would Jon Snow do? Dany amused herself with the ironic thought of perhaps annihilating the Lannister forces at the Trident exactly where the rebel forces defeated her brother Rhaegar, after all they presented no real challenge, she could clearly see that. Then she’d tell Jon Snow to kneel. She knew, and she knew that Jon Snow knew, that he was no challenge for her either. All she needed to do is ferry across the Dothraki in time, and no matter how many Wolves howled behind Jon Snow they wouldn’t mean a threat. Dead Wolves don’t howl.

What surprised her every time she pondered on this, was the guilt she felt. She assigned it to the war itself, the lack of honour in her thoughts as she fought by the side of what she saw as an honourable man, against an enemy that was a threat to them all. Jon called this the North’s war, and fought it that way, and to a degree he was right, the North was the first to fall if the dead weren’t defeated. But it was Jon Snow himself who pointed out the painful truth; shall the North be defeated the South will surely fall and thus this was everybody’s war, really. She felt guilty for her inconsideration towards the suffering the North endured while being overrun, while being mobilised to fight to the last man and to evacuate for what could be forever, for her pondering on how to get what she came for. But it was what she worked for all her life. Just like defeating the dead seemed to be what Jon worked for all his life.

There was a different complication emerging from this. While Dany could see that the North would never bow and kneel willingly, as told as much as that to Jon, and she could force it in their time of need, of course she could, that presented the problem of Jon Snow. Sometimes Dany felt that things would be much easier if Jon treated her with the same animosity he did on Dragonstone. Sure, she couldn’t stand it, she felt it unjust, uncalled for, and way beyond what anyone should allow themselves against her, albeit she had to admit, and did admit that it was exactly that animosity that compelled her to act. Consequently, she was here fighting beside Jon Snow. And Jon’s animosity was a thing of the past. She wanted to view Jon Snow as merely a rival ruler, the same way as she did on Dragonstone, but she couldn’t. She saw the man behind the title now. He was… complex and easy to read at the same time. Jon Snow said what he thought and acted according to his words. Jon Snow didn’t shy away from hard decisions, or a fight for his life if it meant saving his people. And Jon Snow always knew what to say. For some reason that Dany couldn’t define, she felt that she could trust Jon Snow. Jon Snow didn’t take advantage of her vulnerabilities, didn’t judge. Even when Dany spoke of her deepest fear, Jon Snow didn’t judge, those dark grey eyes didn’t say anything but compassion, and understanding. Whenever Dany asked for his opinion, Jon Snow didn’t abuse it, didn’t try to take advantage and use her. Instead, Dany felt as if he was honestly guiding her, his opinions and his advice wasn’t designed to lead her or convince her of anything. That was refreshing. In truth, his whole presence was refreshing. The thoughts that came to her at night before sleep, were not so refreshing. How her mind drifted off to Jon Snow wondering about the man, not the king, were challenging, in a way she’s not been challenged before. She was drawn to the man, intrigued by him, wanting to understand the enigma. 

Dany thought of the men who’ve been around her. They all had a sort of foolish pride, one that directed their actions to prove themselves, as if the man who did the wildest deeds was the bravest, as if the man who spoke the most was the wisest. Jon Snow didn’t speak much and didn’t try to convince her of anything. Dany still remembered the look on his face as his gaze dropped to her breasts during their first supper together, but Jon Snow didn’t treat her like a pretty face and a pair of tits either. What a far cry he was from Daario, albeit Dany doubted that the two could be compared. Daario wanted to land in her bed, and did all he could, took every opportunity that presented itself to convince her. Dany doubted that Jon Snow even considered landing in her bed, which made him all the more mysterious to her. Of course, they were at war, and he was leading the fight, but wasn’t that an accelerator to such things? Everywhere Dany went in the camp, men looked, even stared at her as if in their minds they were already kissing and stripping her. But not Jon Snow. Even Jon’s Wolf commander did that. Lord Reed never did, that much was true, but then, Lord Reed was too old to be so foolish. But why didn’t Jon Snow? Didn’t he find her appealing? Everyone found her appealing, Dany wasn’t shy to admit her own beauty.

She remembered when she spoke with him about Sam Tarly, there was a ribbon on his wrist. A lady’s favour. Perhaps his heart belonged elsewhere. But Dany never heard a woman’s name, shouldn’t men like Edric and Lord Reed at the least mention her at times? If Jon Snow was betrothed, wouldn’t she hear of it? He could not be betrothed. He was an enigma, through and through.

“Your grace,” Dany turned, rather jumped and startled to hear the voice behind her. Lord Reed. Could he read her thoughts on her face? Could he look at her and see what was going on in her mind? She felt blood warming her cheeks as she tried to give him an honest smile.

“I didn’t expect to see you up here,” he said softly, his voice kind and his smile honest.

“Same to you, my Lord,” she said, knowing full well how foolish she sounded. Of course he was on the ramparts, Jon’s trusted advisor must be making sure the men were alert and ready.

“I am good at many things, your grace,” he said with a grin, “sleep isn’t one of them. I tend to wake before the sun does, albeit it isn’t such a feat during winter. The sun rises rather late for anyone not to wake in darkness, and then, for a time it doesn’t rise at all.”

He offered his arm and Dany took it, smiling at the polite gesture as they began to walk along the rampart. “I decided, since I won’t have more rest I may as well see the sunrise. And, to see that beauty,” He pointed toward the sky to the northwest, and Dany could see a pale green shade of light across the sky, high above the hills.

“What is that?” She asked stunned, “it’s beautiful.”

“No one really knows what it is,” Reed explained, “Or rather, there are multiple theories. The mountain clans believe that these are messages from the Gods. The First Men thought of these being evil spirits that escaped. I have read that the Children of the Forest thought them to be the energy of the Earth, so strong that as it broke free it shone on the sky. No one knows the answer, but at times they appear above the mountains and the hills, green and purple, sometimes even red lights.” He chuckled. “There’s a story that a Lord once rode out with all his army seeing the red lights above a hill, so bright that he thought the neighbouring village was being sacked and rode to their aid.”

“You said for a time the sun won’t rise,” Dany wondered, “Like the long night?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Reed said, his hand gently patting hers on his arm, “But it happens every winter. It wasn’t just The Long Night, though that was when they first appeared.”

“Everyone thought that is nothing but a tale…”

“Aye, and now we all are to re-examine what we thought,” Reed’s words were calm, and Dany could see now why Jon listened to the man. It was impossible not to take in whatever he said. “Perhaps all the stories are real. Perhaps we merely forgot the heroes that gave name to the Age of Heroes.”

“Perhaps this is the New Age of Heroes,” she smiled.

“Aye,” Reed nodded, “Perhaps it is. I would like that.”

“Lord Reed, if I may ask you...,” Dany began, albeit her voice trailed off, looking for the right way to ask.

“About the king,” There was no sign of disapproval in his words, and that made Dany feel at ease once more.

“Yes, whether the king is well,” she said, knowing full well that this was not what she wanted to ask about though she couldn’t explain to even herself what it was exactly. “He seemed quite solemn all yesterday.”

“He’s had to kill out of mercy,” Reed said lowly, “and he doesn’t like killing, not at all. He’s had to lie to the boy, and if there is anything he hates more than killing, it is lying. But he’ll get over it, he knows it had to be done. He’ll brood for a while and accept it.”

Dany chuckled, “He seems to brood a lot.”

“Really?” Reed raised an eyebrow with a smile, “I cannot see reason why you would say that, your grace.” They both laughed at that.

“It is as if he was always lamenting something,” Dany continued laughing, “as if he didn’t know happiness.”

“I’ve not known the king for long, not in person at least, but from what I know, he didn’t know happiness.”

“I wonder how that could be,” Dany said nonchalantly, “He is rather pleasing to the eye.”

Reed laughed, softly, honestly, petting her hand on his arm again, “So are you, your grace, so are you. Yet if I am not mistaken, you share Jon’s fate when it comes to happiness. Perhaps when the war is over, you and the king will both be rewarded with happiness. By the Gods, you’ll deserve it.”

“I doubt that,” Dany didn’t think as the words slipped out, honest admission of the thoughts that kept playing on her mind. “I doubt that when the war is won there won’t be another.”

“One last war, for the Iron Throne,” Reed whispered in agreement.

“I’ll fight for what is mine,” Dany declared, “but the more time I spend here, the more I wonder what it is that is mine. What I am fighting for.”

“You refer to the independence of the North.”

“Not really,” Dany looked in the distance as they stopped on the southern side, just where the rampart led to down at the southern gate. “Sometimes I wonder what would make me happy.”

“I found your grace that we only know what that is once we lost it, and not before,” Reed said softly. Dany pondered on the words, as Reed stepped closer to the wall.

“What is that?” He narrowed his eyes to see in the dark, and Dany turned. She could see it, too, a small flicker of… fire.

“Fire,” Dany whispered, “what’s there?”

“Nothing... there should be nothing.” With that Reed turned, and shouted, “Ring the bells!”

***

Jon stood on the rampart, his eye fixed on the flicker of fire in the distance. In the courtyard, men were rushing about, packing their saddlebags and mounting their horses. They had a whole army of men, there was no chance they can ready themselves within the confines of the keep, and so the southern gate has been opened. Thousands of soldiers awaited on horseback outside the gate, silently resolving themselves to the fight ahead, and more were joining them by the minute.

“Your grace, what about the keep, if they dead reach it,” Brienne stood next to the king. Dany was amazed by the tall blonde woman in armour. She didn’t see much of Brienne, except at Winterfell. On the march and during their time at the wall, Brienne was tasked to guard the camp, to maintain supply lines, and as far as Dany could tell she performed the task admirably. But she could see that the lady knight wasn’t fond of her duties. She wanted to fight. Yet it seemed Jon wanted just as much to keep her behind and in safe distance from the enemy.

“Lady Brienne,” Jon began, “they won’t attack the keep.”

They all fell silent at that.

“You can’t know what it is, Jon,” Reed reasoned.

“The plan is sound,” Edric added.

“It was sound,” Jon explained, “Until I gave up our distance from them for an ambush...”

“The men needed that, your grace” Edric interrupted, “they needed to see that they can win.”

Jon glanced at him and continued, “... and until I sent a large group of people ahead a mere day away from the enemy. They hunt the living. They won’t attack the keep because they found a better target.”

“How could you know,” Daenerys stepped in, “If you allowed me to fly over…”

“I know it, I just do,” Jon muttered, interrupting her, his face full of regret. “We all ride out.”

“You said we cannot defeat them in a pitched battle,” Edric pointed the obvious.

“No, we can’t” Jon said resolutely, “I hope you are ready for your second lives as rotting corpses, because we all die today.”

“Perhaps not,” Jaime Lannister stepped in and they all fell silent, gazing at Jaime.

“You said they hunt the living,” Jaime began, “If that is true, then you are most likely correct, your grace, and they went after them. Fair assumption, but by the same rule, they would turn toward a group that attacks them if it is just large enough, and at the same time they can’t reach the refugees.”

“What are you saying, Ser Jaime?” Jon asked impatiently. Why couldn’t everyone just speak to the point?

“Let’s say, the Queen flies over them and separates them from the refugees. A force of two thousand or so can then attack from behind and lead them astray. The rest can circle around and with the Queen blocking the route south in front of the dead, they can lead the refugees to safety while the dead is engaged by the force that attacked them.”

“Safety…” Jon repeated. If there was such a thing as safety anywhere.

“You’d sacrifice two thousand men,” Reed pointed out.

“Aye,” Jaime nodded. “Robb Stark did a similar trick with my father while he attacked me at the Whispering Woods. He sent two thousand against my father and attacked me with the rest of his force while my father was busy believing that he’ll fight the whole of the northern army. If it worked against my father, it’ll work against the dead.”

“I’ll lead the two thousand, your grace,” Brienne stood straight, her face stern.

“No,” Jon said immediately, “You need to be back at Winterfell and fulfil your oath. I expect you to, Lady Brienne, for I took the same oath, and I will lead the two thousand myself. And before any of you say otherwise, none of you come with me.” To cut off any further chance of argument, Jon swiftly rushed down the steps, straight to the horse prepared for him.

“I wish you good fortune,” he said to them as he mounted, then he rode through the gate. They all moved as one, rushing to their horses.

“We can’t allow this,” Brienne grabbed Jaime’s arm, “Do something.”

“And what would you have me do?” Jaime hissed as he turned. “He is the king and commander. He gave his orders, you and I and everyone swore to obey.”

He turned and mounted his horse, glancing around to see that the others did the same. His eyes settled on Edric. The man’s face was determined, his eyes firmly on the side. Following his gaze, Jaime saw he was staring down Daenerys, just catching as the Queen gave a slight nod and turned away. Jaime began to wonder what was going down between them as he followed him through the gate.

***

Jon was right, no matter how desperately he wished to be wrong. He wondered if he was this predictable, even dead men could learn his moves, or he was just this much a fool, an irresponsible, careless fool, an inexperienced commander, or an incompetent king. As they rode forth, a force of roughly two thousand men following him, for he had no time to waste with counting, he pondered about how he suspected that he’s lost this war as soon as the Umber folk left the keep.

They passed the source of the flicker of flame they saw from the keep, a burning cart, shortly after crossing the Last River. He saw more fires toward the south east and turned. Soon enough they passed another burning cart, then another, and Jon wondered how far his people have gotten with the dead chasing them. Then he saw it.

In the snow, there were bodies. Except they weren’t full bodies. They were limbs. Legs and arms, arranged widely in a kind of formation that he could not understand. They rode in between the lines of limbs, and Jon rode straight toward the middle. Bronze Royce seemed to crouch in the middle as if lamenting his dead alone in the snow. Jon wanted to call his name as his horse trotted around him but the word, and his breath, stopped midway when he finally saw. Royce’s left hand held his warhorn. But his right hand held his head. Jon felt rage boiling over inside him as he draw his sword and plunged it into the corpse’s heart, with such force that it fell back and the head rolled away.

He could see three dragons flying ahead, and breathing fire in the distance, telling him all he needed to know. Somewhere between the flames of dragonfire and himself, there was possibly as much as seventy thousand. What chances could he have had, he wondered. Did he ever have a chance to win this?

His mind wandered off as he rode on. In between pondering how much further the horses could get in the snow at this speed, he kept slipping away. To Robb, trying to imagine Robb leading his armies at the Whispering Woods, defeating the legendary Jaime Lannister, making a fool of his dreaded father Tywin. And Arya, Jon tried to imagine Arya pulling off her lovely face the skin of Walder Frey, looking around a room of poisoned men. He was raging, consciously, his mind feeding his rage as he could almost see in front of him Roose Bolton stabbing Robb in the heart, the same Walder Frey grinning as someone slashed open the throat of Lady Catelyn. He never even met Walder Frey, he thought, what if he looked completely different from what he imagined? It didn’t matter. 

He remembered Bronze Royce volunteering for this mission. He could decipher what happened – they were set upon, soon after they crossed the Last River, and Royce sent the refugees ahead, leaving burning carts behind to signal to the keep. And as they ran, the elderly and the women and the children that Jon sent out into the night to save them from this faith, at one point Royce must’ve realised that they’ll have no chance unless he takes a stand. He did what Jon would’ve done, he must’ve turned and attacked. One thousand of the knights of the Vale, against seventy. They had no chance, they never had a chance. No one ever had a chance.

His mind acutely warned him that he chose the same. He was to ride against the same force with but two thousand behind him, more or less two thousand. Jon asked for volunteers, told them they’ll die today, he told them they’ll die to protect those who were trying to escape. He took those who volunteered. As far as he could tell they were wolves and northmen, but he saw some of the freefolk, and even some lions as he took a last look at them before giving the order to ride out.

The dragons were closer, much closer now, as they kept breathing fire, in front of him and to his left. That’s to the south, Jon thought, the south where safety was, if it was even present in this world. Jon turned towards the right, aiming to steer the dead off the path, away from his main force that somewhere behind him were surely trying to circle around the dead. It had to be him they attacked, because if not, then they were well and truly lost.

Edric will organise Winterfell’s defence, Jon thought. Edric, and Brienne and Ser Jaime, any of them more capable than he was. What did he know about war, anyway?

Then he saw them. They were turning, they were rushing toward him, toward his men. It worked. He drew his sword. He couldn’t recall when he began screaming, but his men did the same, as the dead rushed toward them, closer and closer and…

Fire. Jon struggled to halt the speed of his horse and turn without falling into it, and as he glanced up he saw Rhaegal rising above the sky. As he rode on beside the fire he could hear men scream – not everyone could stop or turn he thought, of course two thousand could not execute such a manoeuvre. Men must’ve been burning alive behind him, the smell of burning flesh hit him. He rode on watching as Rhaegal circled back, lower and lower. It was an unbelievable sight, a dragon opening his jaws and fire growing deep down its throat like a ball until it erupted, right beside them. He glanced back to see his men riding beside him, to see Rhaegal flying past in the opposite direction, breathing fire to their left side, separating them from the dead. No. This should not be. This is not how it should be, he thought.

‘Rhaegal go away,’ he thought, ‘Rhaegal leave me. Please leave me.’

The warmth that hit him and swiftly took over his mind where his rage had been burning was inaudible, but he knew what he meant. NO. Fine. How does one argue with a dragon, Jon wondered as he rode on. He aimed to reach the end of the column of fire, but just as he did Rhaegal was back, burning yet another long line to his left. Dragons must be the most stubborn animals, Jon thought, and obviously oblivious to plans. Jon tried to figure out the situation around him as he rode on.

Dany burned their path to the south as planned and separated them from the refugees – if there were still any refugees alive. She burned their left side, separated them from the army circling around. Now they were encircled to the northern side as well. They were encircled, with only one way to go, Jon thought.

He tried to remember his geography. To the right, in the distance he still could see the woods, and knew they were hiding the keep from his sight. Plain terrain, woodland to the right. He’s between the Lonely Hills and the Last River, riding west. The Kingsroad must be in front of him. Yes, he remembered now, he’s instructed the refugees not to go that way, not to go west, go south, follow the lake and take the Kingsroad once they cleared it. The Long Lake.

His horse stumbled but kept on. Jon knew it won’t be long now until the animal gives in, to the cold, the elements, the exhaustion. The sun was high on the sky. Fire burned to his left, and he could hear his men following behind him. To the lake. He looked back, and he could see all three dragons now, Daenerys burning the eastern side of what he presumed to be the encirclement. Did they know? Did they realise? 

Suddenly he remembered, and he blew his warhorn, lengthily, and blew it again. Did anyone besides his own men hear him? Wolves howled behind him, but as he looked up in the sky to see three dragons circling up high, he couldn’t help but doubt that she heard him. And even if she did, did she understand? Jon laughed aloud at how utterly idiotic this all was. ‘We are encircling seventy thousand dead men with dragonfire. What a battle plan.’ What an opportunity.

His horse stumbled once more. How will he get them onto the lake?

“Spread out!” he shouted, and the men began to move toward the right. Good. He hoped the ice could carry their weight. What a joke it would be if they all just rode onto the lake and the ice broke, and they’d all just fall into the icy water and froze to death. Becoming one of them even without fighting them, without killing a single one of them. The ground became rougher and he wanted to shout to the men to be careful, but it was too late, his horse reached the ice. It crunched, but it didn’t break. He rode on, just as his men did.

He looked to his left. It was working, the dead were rushing toward them, after them on the lake. Those behind him were now fighting, more and more, the sounds of it growing closer and closer. He could see the dragons in the distance, but his eye caught something else on the ground. Among them. Blue cloak. A knight of the Vale. And more blue cloaks, fresh corpses. Gods be good, he didn’t want to end up that way.

His eye took in the sight as he swung his sword and began circling around. The Long Lake was indeed long, but it stretched in the wrong direction. He has to turn and fight if he wants to keep them on the ice. As he turned, far in the distance he saw them, on the other side. He recognised the Wolves. They rode onto the ice on the other side. Edric you bastard, you smart ass fucker, Jon laughed. As if on cue, he saw Edric turning toward him in the distance. Jon knew that he couldn’t have heard the horn. But he was here. He was loyal and so were his Wolves, and that is why this idiotic plan had a chance to work. They’ll encircle them and cut off their way. Then the dead reached him.

He kept slashing and slicing as he rode on, and his men kept following. Edric was close, oh so close and yet Jon could see, they won’t reach each other in time. The wights were fast, they kept dragging on his horse, they kept slashing toward him. It was only a matter of time.

He couldn’t see the attack. He fell, training kicking in as he rolled backwards ignoring the sharp pain of his landing on the ice, and he stopped on his feet, sword held ready to attack behind his back. He turned as he stood, cutting down the two in front of him. It was rather easy, you only need to keep moving, cutting down only the ones that come in your way ahead, just keep moving, never stop. Edric was still on his horse, riding toward him with the wolves at his back, and behind him, he could still hear horses, some rode past. One was riderless, just about to come to a halt, the rider possibly pulled down or slayed. Jon grabbed the reins and swung atop, slashing out at the wight that reached to pull him back, and kicked.

From horseback he could see them, they were rushing onto the lake, and finally as he rode on, he could hear the cracks. He wanted to reach Edric, heavily slashing and cutting right in front of him. He was close, so very close. Jon watched it unfold. He saw how they halted his horse. He knew he was shouting as they grabbed at Edric, as they encircled him and pulled him under. This could not be. This just could not be. But as he reached the group he couldn’t see the commander anymore. He cut them down in hot red anger while they kept grabbing at him now, and there was nowhere to go as more were taking the place of those he dispatched, they were all around him. They were pulling him from his horse. Something cut him, he felt the warmth of blood on his leg. He released the reins and took his dagger to try and free himself on both sides, but it was not enough. He fell, just as the sky turned amber around him, and he could see the enormous teeth in the jaw of a dragon and everything began to glow red and all shades of yellow, as he felt the warmth of fire. It was suddenly too hot, his mind wandering away at the thought of burning alive. But then it was cold, oh so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BATTLE STATISTICS:
> 
> 1) STARTING NUMBERS (ACTIVE FIGHT ONLY)
> 
> Living: 39.050 + Direwolves & Dragons & living ravens (for warging)  
> \- Jon: 10K Wolves + 801 Direwolves  
> \- Sansa: 5K knights of the Vale  
> \- North: 3K (spread across the wall, later retreating)  
> \- Tormund: est. 2K freefolk  
> \- Dany: 8000 Unsullied + 5000 Dothraki + 3x dragons  
> \- Jaime: 6000 Lions  
> \- Nights Watch: est. 50
> 
> Dead: est. 100K + shadowcats, bears, mammoths, ravens & eagles
> 
> 2) CONFIRMED* DEADCOUNT:
> 
> Living:  
> \- 1000 knights of the Vale  
> \- 100 Lions  
> \- 120 Wolves  
> \- 1 Northman (Umber)  
> \- BRONZE YOHN ROYCE - RIP
> 
> Dead:  
> \- 30,000 est. - Castle Black  
> \- 10,000 est. incl 2x Walkers - The Gift
> 
> *note: “Confirmed” for the Living means either a corpse found or seen in the army of the dead, or that the chances of survival based on the storyline is dim as hell - excluding miraculous plot-armours which allow absence without reason provided until further confirmation of death can prove that said death actually occurred and wasn’t just something a character perceived ... muhahahahaaaa :D
> 
> Jon’s estimation is wrong (he doesn’t know math either, it seems). If Dany burned 20K and each attack at the wall destroyed 2K that’s 10K plus (on the wall, Dothraki, Wolves/Lions, Unsullied, Dany@retreat) that’s 30K.  
> Adding his estimation at The Gift is 10K...  
> They faced 60K at the Long Lake not 70K, if their estimation of 100K is correct.


	23. The Long Lake II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonsa

Jon could make out the shapes of sinking bodies, he could see the light of fire through the ice. His mind registered that the dragons were burning the lake, as ice suddenly burst into shattered pieces in long lines, mixing with fire, evaporating, causing waves underneath and more and more dead bodies sunk under. He had to get out of the water if he didn’t want to freeze to death or drown, his mind registered as he began to feel himself unable to hold on any longer without taking a breath. He was looking for a clear break, where he fell, and finally he found it.

Crawling out of the icy water wasn’t easy, it felt like the hardest thing he’s ever done. While the cold of the water helped underneath, his drifting mind suddenly pulled back into alertness as the freezing water claimed him like countless knives attempting to pierce his skin, but as soon as he was out, he felt every bit of pain. His thigh was cut, as he crawled out of the water he could feel it, his hand unconsciously going to where sharp pain hit him. He rolled on his back, coughing, spitting water still, and looked at it. It was covered in blood. He was bleeding heavily.

Once more his training kicked in as he pulled on the neck of his shirt, but couldn’t tear it, Sansa’s stitches were too strong, too perfect. A flicker of thought that Sansa would surely forgive, he began to untie the delicately embroidered ribbon on his wrist. It took a few tries, but finally he untied the knot with his right hand and his teeth, and he growled as he tried to sit up just enough to reach the wound. Then he saw it. The gash was long and wide, made by a crude weapon surely, and it was deep, blood steadily leaving his body throughout, collecting in a pool under his leg. He moved without thinking, screaming from the pain as he tied the piece of linen above the wound. He may lose this leg, he registered, but the thought gave way to relief as the blood flow slowed. He needed to cover it, he knew, but that could come later.

He looked around. There were no blue-eyed dead around him, he noted with considerable lack of emotion. Somewhere in him, he thought, he accepted that he would die today, and now that he didn’t, the realisation came without any further consideration of what it meant. He could still die today.

He looked around, taking in the scene. There was no one around him, it seemed as if he was surrounded by only death and not a single living soul. Men he lost laid motionless around him, and some rotting corpses as well. Where the ice broke, they burned, like massive torches, until the thick ice under them melted and they sunk into the water. His eyes settled on a body.

He began to crawl, slowly, feeling the need to collect his strength before every move as he pulled himself closer with his hands, until he reached the body. Edric. He studied the man, stab wound just under his shoulder, under his breast plate a nasty gash in mail, clothing and skin, and another somewhat shallower one just above his right knee, his boots somewhat melted. None of them seemed lethal to Jon. He reached for Edric’s hand, sighing of relief as he felt the pulse.

“Edric you bastard,” Jon muttered, “You better fucking wake up, or I’ll never forgive you disobeying my command!” By the time he finished his hand was beating the breastplate, “Come on you fucker!” he shouted, “Come on, come on!”

Finally, Edric Snow opened his eyes, his gaze betraying his complete loss of sense where he was. It took him a long moment, before he realised. “We have to get off the lake,” he whispered to Jon then, and both began to crawl to land a few meters away. When they reached it, they turned and growled as they sat up.

“I better not lose my ability to…” Edric’s voice trailed off, and Jon allowed himself a weak laugh. “I do want a woman once we get out of this shithole. A comely curvy wife to make my little Snow heirs with.”

“There’s no way out of this shithole,” Jon said lowly. “Thought you had a wife.”

“Aye, once,” Edric said, melancholy in his voice, “the childbirth took her, the babe too.”

Jon nodded silently, glancing at his friend. They both turned to watch as the dragons continued to burn the lake. It seemed that no one else was around them, but the dead, the dragons, and the Dragon Queen, as if the battle has been fought by no one else.

Edric raised a hand toward him, “Listen,” he whispered. It took Jon a moment until he’s heard it. Horses. They didn’t sound like an army, that’s for sure, but there were horses running towards them. They both laid back on the ground at once until they could see.

A man, a sworn Brother, Jon realised. The man wore a hood, yet as he rushed closer to them, he pulled it back from his face. Jon’s heart skipped a beat. Or more, he couldn’t tell, it felt as if it stopped beating altogether.

“Uncle Benjen,” Jon uttered finally as Benjen reached them. “I knew you were alive.”

Benjen smiled slightly at Jon, “Almost, Jon. Almost.”

He tore a piece of his cloak then and nearly folded it. Jon watched as he swiftly tied it around the gash on his leg, removing Sansa’s favour. “You will need this,” he said handing it back to Jon. Jon took it, tying it in a knot around his wrist as if he was in a daze, while Benjen hastily tied up Edric’s wounds. Finally, he looked up, straight at Jon, staring at him.

Jon could see his skin was of pale grey. He could see the gashes on his face. “How?”

“The Children of the Forest stopped me from turning into one of them.”

Jon sighed. Almost, he thought, but not really, not anymore. Benjen stood, pulling a screaming Edric up with him. “You’ve got to leave, now. He has arrived.”

He reached his hand toward Jon and Jon took it, gasping as Benjen pulled him up as if he wasn’t heavier than a feather. “Where is he? We ought to end this, we ought to kill him…”

“You won’t kill him today, Jon,” Benjen said. “Not for a while, yet.”

Jon looked at him bewildered. He had to try. If there was a chance, here by the lake, he had to take it.

“You could never reach him,” Benjen said as he walked on the ice to retrieve a sword. Jon’s sword. He raised it and glanced at the handle. Carved wood, thick, and leather wrapping. Benjen glanced at Edric and handed the sword to Jon, his face emotionless.

“You will need this sword,” he said. “Count the days, Jon.”

“For what?” Jon felt Benjen’s behaviour eerily familiar. Emotionless, speaking in riddles. Much like Bran, Jon thought.

“Until the day comes for you to kill him.”

Benjen helped him mount a horse and turned to his friend. Edric tried to remain silent, his face distorted from the pain as he mounted the horse with Benjen’s help.

“I don’t understand,” Jon said finally, his eyes gazing in the distance where the dragons flew around the lake, still breathing fire.

“Ask Howland Reed,” Benjen said coolly, “There’s no time for this now. He knows who you are, he is searching for you.”

“Come with us,” Jon leaned down on the horse, his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.

“We may meet again,” Benjen said with a smile, “I still fight for the living. For you. But you have to go now.” He glanced back at the dragons.

“It won’t be long now,” he said turning back to Jon, grabbing his arm. “You have to leave, now, or you won’t leave alive.”

Jon didn’t understand, he wanted to speak. But the earth began to shake, and the words forgot to leave his mouth as he looked around.

“Leave, now!” Benjen shouted, mounting his horse.

It was surreal. Jon saw the bodies of their fallen on the lake beginning to move, to shake a little, just a little. All three of them turned in an instant and kicked the side of their horses.

As he rode on, away from the lake, he could see it. The earth was moving, as if moles and groundhogs were digging holes all around them as they went on. But they weren’t animals. They were corpses. Skeletons. Hands reached out from underground toward the sky, and they ushered their horses to go faster and faster as skeletons crawled out from below. Jon glanced back as they left the field, reaching the Kingsroad, as skeletons stood where he and Edric sat. More and more rose, to Jon’s disbelief, thousands of them. Their fight on the lake was for naught, he thought, just as they all turned toward him. Countless pairs of blue eyes watched him ride away. Then they moved, as one.

“Faster, Faster,” Jon shouted as if his horse could understand the words, as an army of skeletons chased them. He looked to his left to see Edric struggle to keep it together while he rode, then his right. But he couldn’t see uncle Benjen anymore. He wondered if he daydreamed him there, if Benjen was nothing more than a mirage of his pain-fueled mind, but as he glanced back, he knew he didn’t imagine his beloved uncle he used to yearn so much to find. He saw the dragons approaching in the distance, hoping they’ll reach him before the dead does, and he rode on, as fast as he could, hoping he’ll make it out of this graveyard alive.

He could feel the dragonfire behind him. The usual trick to retreat, he thought. What would they do without the dragons, they’d surely all be dead by now.

***

“You said left.”

Arya grinned. It’s exactly what she said after the same lesson. “Syrio told me, never believe what your opponent says, never believe their hands. Only their eyes. Their eyes will tell you when they lie, where they’ll hit.”

“That makes no sense, Arya,” Sansa dropped on the chest, panting. “I have to watch your hand, I can’t watch your eye.”

“That is wrong,” Arya began. “You only have to feel. You don’t have to see.”

Sansa shook her head. Training with Arya was so much different than training with Jon. Jon used to be patient, always explaining in great detail what she’s done wrong. Arya wasn’t patient and certainly didn’t spell out her mistakes clearly. She wasn’t careful either, while Jon would’ve never hit her, Arya gave her so many bruises that she’s lost count. If only Jon were here, she thought, she’d perhaps be better at this already.

Her little sister sat down next to her. “You’re good at it, you know, good enough. Not great, but…”

“I don’t need to be great at it,” Sansa said lowly. “Jon said I don’t need to be good at it, either. Only good enough to defend myself and survive.”

Arya smiled at that, watching Sansa gaze through the window.

“He’ll be back soon, and you defied his order to leave.”

“I told him I won’t leave,” Sansa whispered. Arya watched her as she sat motionless, her mind somewhere else, her fingers leisurely playing with her skirt. She looked so frail now, so lost. And the Lady of Winterfell that was Sansa Stark never looked lost.

“How long?” Arya asked softly. She didn’t answer at first, as if she didn’t hear it.

“How long, what?”

“How long have you loved him.” Arya reached out and laid a hand on Sansa’s, doing her best to show that she didn’t mean to judge. Suddenly, Sansa stood.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said as she made it toward the stairs.

“Yes, you do.”

She looked back at Arya from the stairs, “It doesn’t matter Arya. Nothing matters but the war.” With that she rushed down the stairs.

***

Sansa rushed to her chamber. How did she know? Was she really so easy to figure out? Jon never figured it out – she could tell from the look in his eyes, the surprise as he stood frozen staring at her as she parted from him, from how his lips parted yet not a single word left his mouth. She left him speechless. How did Arya know? Perhaps Bran… but no, Bran would not tell, or Sansa hoped he would not. That Bran knew was not a question. Bran knew everything. She may have thought that they were alone in the crypt, but Bran saw everything.

She had work to do, she told herself, like so many times these past days. Ever since they left, really.

The first days were the hardest. The constant fear of what was to come, the fear that he won’t come back to her. This wasn’t a ride to White Harbor, it wasn’t even like him sailing to Dragonstone. He left her to go to war, and this time she couldn’t pretend otherwise. It wasn’t like one dead man against him in the courtyard of Winterfell. Bran said there was a hundred thousand of them.

But Jon was Jon, she kept telling herself. Jon promised he’ll come back so he will, because Jon always kept his word. And Jon was good at killing them. He ought to be, he fought them before and he returned. He was good at killing anyone. They called him the greatest swordsman that ever was. Ramsay called him the greatest swordsman that ever was. Sansa chuckled, what’s a compliment from a man whom she never saw to even hold a sword? Samwell Tarly told her that Jon always comes back. Not that it had any meaning, but someone said those words that she needed to hear often enough, so now Sansa tried to pretend to believe it.

The days at Winterfell quickly fell back to the now familiar routine, helping her to move on and forget her plight. As if she could forget. It wasn’t the days that were hard, it was the nights. Every night the same, sitting by the fire alone, staring at the chair he used to sit. Oh how she missed Jon. Every night she kept sitting in her chair wondering if he missed her. If he thought of her. If he still wore her favour.

It was such a foolish thing to give him. Sansa made the ribbon a while ago. He was away back then, too, she made it when she learned what it was like being without him. While he was on Dragonstone, she couldn’t remember anymore when exactly the idea came to mind, and she never really thought she would have the chance to give him. Not until he parted from her, after she confronted him, and she felt so ashamed, she had to send him away. She regretted it, of course she did, as soon as the door closed behind him she wanted to cry out and beg him to stay. But she wouldn’t. She would never beg anyone, never again, not even Jon. But as she lay awake that night, she knew should not let him go, not without taking a piece of her with him, and not without leaving a piece of his behind. She needed all her might to kiss him. But she knew she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t, and he didn’t return. If she never took that last chance. And he needed to know, though why, Sansa couldn’t tell. Bran told her a couple times, “He needs to know.” Sansa couldn’t tell why, and Bran didn’t say anything else, didn’t give a reason. He just kept chanting it whenever they talked of Jon, “Sansa, he needs to know.” So, she took the last chance to let him know.

Bran also told her when the wall fell. The direwolves howled in the Wolfswood for half a day when Sansa sought Bran out. She’ll never forget that night, after he told her, how she sobbed silently for hours. Bran told her how the wall fell, and how they retreated. He told her Jon wore her favour. He told her Jon stayed behind for the Dragon Queen. And the damn wolves kept howling all night long, and the next day.

They howled until Ghost arrived, and Sansa couldn’t pretend anymore. She’s prepared those who could not fight, and sent them on their way, with the Hornwoods as their escort. She instructed the knights of the Vale to bring up the bodies from the crypt, and they burned them. The Karstarks arrived, abandoning their keep. They didn’t do it on the king’s order. They followed the example of Edric’s Wolves who abandoned the Dreadfort. It seemed to Sansa that men grew afraid. And like in times of old, when they grew afraid they turned to their lord. Their King. They all came to Winterfell. Yet their King was not here, and no matter how proud Sansa felt at Jon inspiring hope in them, she knew that when he arrives, their days will be numbered, and she’ll be able to count them on one hand.

That is why she trained with Arya, and that is why she kept sitting by the fire every night, sewing. She was preparing, too. She was preparing to be who she thought Jon would want her to be. Still, even though she knew what his return will bring upon them, Sansa longed for Jon to return.

This is why she couldn’t focus on training with Arya today, or why she kept glancing out windows, why she kept walking the battlements. Because Bran told her. He told her that Jon fought a battle. The third one. It wasn’t what he said that made Sansa understand. Bran, always so emotionless, so lifeless, had worry in his eyes.

She waited for the Umber refugees to arrive, for the army to arrive. For Jon to arrive, for he was alive, Bran said as much. But he wasn’t with the army anymore. That’s why Sansa couldn’t focus today, knowing that Jon was out there in the wilderness of a frozen North, as much as fifty thousand dead men haunting him. That number filled Sansa with pride. Jon led an army less that number, yet they managed to halve the army of the dead. She knew full well that Jon would only dismiss it, but it was an achievement. Sansa knew Jon’s fears, that they’d all be chased out of the North, their armies decimated until all of them were marching in the army of the dead as blue-eyed corpses, while their people would lose their homeland forever. In her nightmares, she saw Jon like that, marching among rotting corpses, his eyes an icy blue like that of the four dangling man at Castle Black.

Sansa thought of those days more often lately. She remembered when they had nothing but the clothes they wore and the horses they rode, a cart with them carrying the four crates, two Brothers of the Nights Watch, Davos, Jon and her wandering around in the west, trying to win over the North to their cause. To Sansa, in some way those days were easier, simpler. Yes, they didn’t have a home, but she remembered fondly of the days when she and Jon shared a tent. Of course, there were uncomfortable, sometimes embarrassing elements to it, but they grew to work around those, and in time, they didn’t matter as much. Sansa would study Jon’s wounds on his chest as he washed, and at night when she woke, because she always woke, her hair clinging to her face in her sweat from the nightmares that haunted her back then, she could climb beside him on the camp bed and he would tuck her in his blanket and hold her until she calmed. She knew she loved him then.

“My lady,” Maester Wolkan appeared, and Sansa wondered why she left the door open, cursing herself for not being able to ignore the maester, wishing herself some more time to be lost in her memories, but a glance at the maester’s sulking face made her stand from her chair. She rushed out, straight to the courtyard.

Jaime Lannister.

The knight stood in front of Sansa, their eyes studying each other for a moment before Ser Jaime went on one knee. The courtyard began to fill with refugees, with soldiers. Little Ned Umber stood beside Jaime, and knelt, as if it was required.

“Rise,” Sansa said, not bothering to explain that the show was unnecessary. She crouched down in front of the boy.

“Go with Maester Wolkan, Ned,” she said softly as she took the boy’s hand, “He’ll look to see you to a chamber prepared. You’ve had a long journey, I would have you rest now.” The boy nodded and did as he was told without a word. Sansa could see his spirit has been broken.

“Where is the king?” She asked Jaime as she stood.

“He rode out with some of the men to lead the dead away from the refugees.”

“I know that,” Sansa hissed, ignoring the surprised look on Jaime’s face. “I know he is alive.” Now his face turned to that of pure shock.

“I am asking, if you’ve sworn to fight for him, why are you here,” Sansa’s voice was cold as ice, “why aren’t you with him, to protect him?”

“I thought he fell, lady Sansa, we all did.” Jaime Lannister looked just as broken as the little boy, Sansa thought. But she couldn’t emphasise, not with a Lannister.

“That’s convenient for you, isn’t it,” Sansa said lowly, in that same icy tone. “He dies, and your sister will claim the North. He is not dead, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime didn’t respond, pondering on it for a moment and swallowing whatever clever response came to his mind. Sansa stepped back from him.

“We’ve a chamber prepared for you, and a bath will be drawn. I would have you study the battlements, Ser. You’re a knight sworn to fight in this war, I would remind you. I would have you put your experience to good use and see to Winterfell’s defence.”

The knight bowed, “Gladly, my lady.” His voice was empty. Of course, he expected her to be angry and cold, she thought as she turned and left him in the courtyard.

She walked up to the broken tower once more. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. No memories came to mind now of the simpler times, as she sat where she and Jon used to sit after her training, his arm on her shoulders, telling her that she’ll get better at swordplay.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. At times she walked to the window, and at once, she watched the dragons approaching. She heard the horn announcing arrival, and knew it was the Dragon Queen. It filled her with even more worry. They all returned, except Jon, Edric and Bronze Royce, along with the knights of the Vale Royce took with him to Last Hearth.

The horn sounded once more. She rushed back to the window to see, but there weren’t a thousand riders approaching. There were only two.

She rushed down the steps, almost falling as her ankle buckled and she cried out in pain, but she rushed forth with even more determination. She reached the bottom and left for the courtyard just as the outer gate opened, she heard the creaking of the iron gate. Then the inner gate opened, and she saw him. Them.

She saw Edric falling from his horse, men rushing to help.

“Take him to my chambers,” she heard Jon, “Send for maester Wolkan to see to him immediately.”

His voice was frail and thin, his hair untied, hung in thick locks mixed with what Sansa could only perceive as blood, and he had a large black bondage on his left thigh. Sansa stood frozen, as he slowly, very slowly got off his horse, flinching as his left leg hit the ground. He didn’t move, as if he was trying to find his balance, as if the earth was moving under him the way it moved under Sansa’s feet. He reached to unsheathe his sword, still not looking around as he leaned on the blade for support, and Sansa could see his left wrist. The ribbon.

She ran to him, to hold him, and then he looked up and their eyes met as he opened his right arm just as she reached him. The world had disappeared, and time stopped, as she finally wrapped her arms around the man she loved. Her very own Dragonknight had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Edric’s plot-armour at this point in the story is so thick and magical that even dragonfire wouldn’t end him (meaning he still has purpose). And Jon is Jon.
> 
> This chapter is posted without any proof reading because my eyes are struggling to stay open :( I’ll check grammar etc tomorrow.
> 
> I may post with longer intervals to gain inspiration and time to formulate my scenes, sorry for that.


	24. Winterfell III / I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonsa

Her hair smelled like cinnamon, firewood and winter roses, and Jon held on for perhaps longer than he should’ve, but she didn’t seem to mind, her hold on him seemed almost desperate to him as they stood in the courtyard clinging to each other. The smell reminded him of better days, of leisurely chats by the fire at night, soft laughter and teasing. Of home.

“I can’t walk on my own,” he whispered into her hair, and she finally parted from him, looking at him. Her hand slipped under his arm as she nodded.

Then Jon looked around. Jaime Lannister caught his eye, atop the battlements, his face full of relief. Jon could imagine the scolding Jaime received. Brienne stood next to him, safely back at Winterfell and at Sansa’s side. Howland Reed stood by the stables, and Sam rushed forth from the library. And the smallfolk, they slowly filled the courtyard. The sounds of the smithy ceased as smiths emerged from under the tents, the servants and kitchen wenches came forth from the keep and stood by the guards and fighting men, and they all looked silent. They all kept staring at him, worry, wonder, and perhaps pride in their eyes.

He watched as Sansa turned toward Reed, and Reed ushered forward. This entrance won’t be very kingly, he thought as Reed’s arm slipped under his. He tried to take a step, but his leg buckled ad gave in under him. He felt Reed holding him up, this skinny, frail men more for books than for heavy lifting now held all his weight, along with Sansa. A guard rushed forward, gesturing to Sansa to give way and she stepped to the front.

Jon had to walk, he knew. He wished someone would pick him up and just put him down on a feather bed that he would never ever have to leave again, but he knew that was not possible. The people had to see him on his feet, the people had to see him fight this. The people should never see him being carried.

So he swallowed and took a step, with the guard on his left, tall and strong man able to carry most of his weight. It didn’t seem as hard after the first few steps, after he learned the pain that hit him at every step he could prepare himself. It was a slow process and the door seemed miles away, but he will get there. Only past the door, then there’ll be no more need to try this hard.

“We’ll take you to my chambers,” Sansa said softly, “See that you gave up yours…”

Jon smiled at that. There was a slight dissatisfaction in her voice, and it made Jon want to tease her for being so… Sansa. He couldn’t have thought a description, she was unlike anyone else. She was so much of her mother, her values and her pride, but then she was a Stark, stubborn and free-spirited. She was also something else, something Jon assigned to all the people who betrayed her – she was cunning, Jon knew. But mainly she was just Sansa, kind and loving, the Sansa that she never showed when anyone else was around. That sweet side of her that she reserved only for Jon, and he knew.

His thoughts occupied him until he finally realised that they reached the door, too narrow for three men to make it through. Sansa gestured to the guards and as Jon looked back he could see them standing around, blocking the view. He was glad.

Then he was picked up and swiftly carried into Sansa’s chamber, and slowly, carefully put down on his feet in front of her bed. He looked at the furs and pillows, his mind aching to be laid there.

“Send warm water, and linens,” Sansa said to the guard and the man turned and rushed out the door.

Reed began the tedious task of stripping him from his frozen garments. It was indeed tedious, the string that held his leathers together froze in, and Reed struggled to open the garment.

“Just cut it,” Jon whispered to a smiling Reed, “before I freeze.”

Reed did as told, and soon the garment was dropping on the floor, Sansa pulling it away from his feet. Two servant girls arrived, one with a bowl of steaming water and the other with jugs of the same and linens. Sansa ordered it to be put beside the bed and ushered them out, before she locked the door.

He wondered if he should send Sansa out but decided against it, reasoning with not wanting to argue about it, but in truth he knew that her presence calmed him. It made him able to believe that he made it back to Winterfell, something that even a couple hours ago seemed impossible to him.

Reed knelt to cut off the black bondage on his thigh and Sansa gasped. The wound seemed to have frozen, too, for which Jon was quite glad because it didn’t fester, but as Reed gently pulled off the fabric stuck to his flesh he needed all his remaining strength not to scream. Sansa let out a small cry once it was done, surely at the sight that Jon was thankful he could not see.

“We will need to clean this,” Reed said kindly, “And burn it, too, else it will fester.”

“I’ll send for the maester,” Sansa began but Jon interrupted.

“No. He’s attending to Edric’s wounds, they’re worse than this.”

Reed just stood once more, and for a moment waited. “Go on,” Jon whispered, and Reed began to peel off his frozen breeches with a knife, for it would’ve been much harder to take them off conventionally, Jon understood. He took off his shirt, and Jon found himself standing there in his boots and small clothes.

She began to soak a piece of linen and gently wash his chest, his back, his legs. She worked swiftly, as Jon enjoyed the warm water on his skin, watching the pool of water collecting where he stood before it ebbed away between the floor boards.

“I bring fresh clothing,” she said when she finished, glancing at his smallclothes then Reed. She left softly closing the door behind him, and he felt a sudden emptiness in his heart. He really needed her close now, the warm calmness she provided.

“I can wash that much of myself,” he said with a slight smile at Reed who held up his hands and stepped aside, as Jon untied the remainder of his clothing somewhat hesitantly. He let it drop just as Reed handed him a freshly soaked linen, and he swiftly did the job of washing his private parts musing about how un-kingly he must’ve looked.

“I need to speak with you,” he said then, just as Reed handed him a piece of linen to wrap around himself, “I saw my uncle Benjen. He saved us, he brought forth some of our horses to us and saved us. But also…” No. He didn’t want to remember that just yet.

“Was he the one lost beyond the wall?” Reed asked nonchalantly.

“You know he was,” Jon wasn’t amused. “He was… turned, but not like them. His body was dead, but it was him. He spoke, he didn’t have blue eyes. He said the Children saved him, stopped him from turning.”

Reed seemed to think hard about what he’s heard. “What else did he say?”

“He told me that I should count the days until the day I kill the Night King. He told me that the Night King knows who I am. And he told me to ask you to explain.”

Reed took a deep breath at that, and it seemed to Jon that he knew exactly what this was about. But then Sansa returned, a pile of clothing in her hand, and Reed only shook his head to him. He wasn’t to talk in front of her, Jon understood.

Sansa handed fresh small clothes to him and Jon struggled to get it on without dropping the linen from his hip, once more musing at what a sorry sight he must be doing this. Then Reed took the whole bowl and stepped in front of him.

“You need to lean forward,” Sansa said seeing his confused face, and he obeyed.

It felt wonderful. She poured warm water on his sculp and her fingers gently washed his hair, fingertips massaging his sculp as she washed out the blood and the dirt from his locks. She had multiple jugs, and by the time she emptied all of them Jon almost felt clean. He wiped his face in the water she poured into his palms and then she then took a linen to wipe his face clean. She then handed him a clean shirt, one of those white linen ones she made, and he’s put it on.

Then it was the mission of getting him onto the bed. Sansa laid out a thick blanket at the bottom, and he realised it was for they were to clean his wound. He didn’t look forward to it at all, in fact dreading it, as they gently helped him lay down, while keeping his injured leg as straight and motionless as possible. But soon he was laying on the furs and pillows, and it felt like the Seventh Heaven must feel, and he found that he didn’t mind anything that came after.

“I know that you know but this will hurt,” Reed said, as Sansa sat down next to him on the bed, leaning across him to block his view. He wondered if he was glad for it or annoyed by it, but the sight of her was soothing, and for the first time, something else.

Sansa was a woman. Of course, you idiot, he told himself, she kissed you. But truly, Sansa had curves. Sansa had breasts, to be precise, albeit she didn’t lean close enough to him to make them taunt him, and it was clear that is not on her mind, but Jon was taunted regardless. It felt like a shocking revelation. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers as he felt blood rushing into his cheeks – he must’ve stared. But her face didn’t speak of disapproval. It didn’t speak of approval either, her eyes only spoke of worry. And care. And love, Jon told himself. She kissed him. She loved him.

No matter how he tried, he couldn’t drag himself out of this chain of thought. Sansa had soft lips, and pale porcelain skin, and a long graceful neck, and under this dress she wore that looked more like an armour with long leather pieces nailed onto it, she had the body of a woman. Those leather pieces actually seemed to emphasise this, Jon thought, as they curved around her breasts. But then it hit him.

The pain was sharp, and he had to swallow the scream. “Seven Hells!” he cursed, just as another wave hit him. Reed was cutting into his flesh, that much he could figure, and suddenly he was glad that he didn’t see it. A few more waves followed, and he could feel himself growing warmer, he could feel the sweat breaking out, as he struggled to stay quiet. Sansa’s hand caressed his face, brushing away the black curls from his forehead. Her fingers were so soft, like velvet on his skin, making him wonder if this was like how her touch would feel if…

He cursed himself in his mind for that thought.

Reed must’ve finished for he stood and walked to the fire. He laid his dagger on the firewood, Jon could see the handle sticking out.

“This will hurt even more,” he said as he walked to the table by the bed, taking a small jug. Jon tried to remember what he knew of clearing wounds and burning them, he couldn’t figure what was coming next. Not until Reed poured something on his wound. This time, he screamed.

The next thing he felt as he came to was the hotness of the knife, burning his flesh, his skin. His mind began reciting some kind of inaudible prayer as he wished the moments to swiftly pass, for the pain to cease. Slowly, they did, taking the rest of his strength with them.

He registered as they removed his boots, but he wasn’t really with them anymore. “I’ll bring milk of the poppy,” he heard Reed as Sansa washed his feet, and her response.

“I don’t think he’ll need it.”

Her voice was soft and soothing to Jon. He tried to open his eyes to see her once more, but they didn’t obey, so all he could do is lay motionless as they removed the blanket from under his leg, and covered him in furs, until all of him but his face and his wound was left, and he heard the door open. Then he smelled the cinnamon and winter roses once more, and the brush of a kiss on his forehead, before he drifted off to sleep.

***

Jon woke in darkness, from a dream of laying on a table, naked as his nameday, in a cold room on a cold table… He gasped for air. Then he felt it. The same calm and warmth lingered in the room. He wasn’t in Castle Black, he wasn’t laying on the Lord Commander’s desk. He was in a featherbed, covered in furs, his leg aching. He’s been cut, now he could remember, his mind rushing, scrambling to recall and throw at him every vile and gruesome image of the fight. He shook his head to chase the memories away, his hand brushing away his unruly curls from his face.

“Sansa,” He whispered. He could just about make out her figure as she stood by the remains of the fire, and rushed to him, her hand on his forehead.

“You have fever,” she whispered, “Lord Reed said you will.”

Jon nodded, wondering how much time could’ve passed. His hand unconsciously reached for hers as she moved to turn away.

“Stay.”

“You need rest,” she said softly, her voice calm, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

“Do you remember when we used to share our tent,” he responded, “and you had those dreams, you used to climb into my bed at night…” he stopped, not knowing if he should continue. “Now it is me with the dreams…”

She understood, he noted to himself with relief, as she lifted the furs and blankets, and climbed beside him, curling up against him with her head on his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her. They laid silent for a while, before he spoke again.

“How long have I been asleep,” he asked.

“A few hours,” she responded softly as her fingers began caressing his chest through the soft linen of his shirt, “you were talking in your sleep. Shouting in fact, but I couldn’t make out much. You kept saying traitor, traitor… did someone betray you?”

“I dreamt of the Nights Watch… of what they did.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “What was it like? Fighting them.”

His heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to scare her, not just yet. There’ll be plenty of time when he won’t be able to protect her from it, and he may not be able to keep his promise. Jon wasn’t one to dream, to pretend that reality was anything else but what it really was with all its horrible details.

“I tell you tomorrow,” he finally whispered. She didn’t protest.

“You kept it.”

The ribbon. Of course he kept it, he thought, did she think that he’ll ever take it off?

“It saved my life,” he smiled as he said it, “I tied it around my thigh to stop the bleeding, I would’ve bled out. I thought you’ll forgive it.”

He could feel that her lips curled into a smile, the slight movement of her cheek on his chest as she smiled. “It’s beautiful, Sansa, it must’ve been a lot of work.”

“I made it when you were on Dragonstone,” she whispered, “I thought if I foretell perhaps you’ll defeat the Night King.”

“You foretold Winterfell burning then,” he said, and he was no longer smiling.

“It will burn.”

Yes, it will, Jon thought bitterly. Whenever he had thoughts on the way back other than his silent begging to survive, this is all he kept thinking of. Winterfell will burn. He could no longer tell how many dead men marched on Winterfell, but there was no doubt that they won’t circle around this time.

“I sent ravens to White Harbor and Widows Watch,” she whispered then. “I wrote that you’re here, and the wall has fallen, they should evacuate.”

Jon was glad. This was Sansa, always doing what was needed to be done, no matter how hard it felt. Jon liked this about her. In truth he liked a lot of things about her. She had a practical mind, clever, almost cunning. She was always so graceful, so confident. Always, when others were around, but not with him. With him she wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, ever. She was just Sansa, sometimes solemn and sometimes scolding, but sometimes playful and carefree. His mind became acutely aware counting the layers of linen between them, all the while telling him how it was wrong. He couldn’t help it.

“You kissed me,” he whispered, “why?”

“You know why,” she said, and he could feel her tense in his arms.

“Because you love me?”

She looked up at him and he tried to make out her face in the darkness. He tried to read her face, yet all he could see is soft silhouettes, and her shining eyes.

“How could you love me,” he asked. “You should love a tall blond prince with a crown and castles and plenty of servants, one that showers you with gifts and tells you every day how beautiful you are.”

“Once, perhaps,” she said, laying her head back on his chest, “but not anymore.”

He pondered on that. She truly changed. She wasn’t one for those stories anymore, she’s seen the world in all its ugliness and she no longer believed in fairytales. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk anymore. Not about this. Sansa loved him. What should he do with this? Part of him wanted to roll her over and love her, but he knew better. He knew it would be his instinct, something he thought once to be his bastard blood so shameful but now he knew as merely the blood of the dragon in him, and he knew it wouldn’t be right.

How did he feel about this? He tried to find in him the answer, but there was none. There was a maze of emotion, a jungle of webs of feelings, competing to be the answer. Did he love her? Of course he did, he thought, whenever he was away from her he longed for her. But did he really love her? Did he love her enough to roll them around and show her? His mind craved the release of it, to be free from worries and war and dead men and immense itself in the sensation of just her. But was it her he wanted? He wasn’t sure, he didn’t know. He wanted to laugh. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

***

“My Lady,” she heard behind him and turned.

Ser Jorah Mormont stood behind her, stepping forward to take a look at the vast white field that was surrounding Winterfell, and Sansa stepped aside to give him way.

“Ser Jorah Mormont,” Sansa nodded her head and the knight bowed.

“How is the king?” Ser Jorah asked her, studying her face.

“Resting,” she allowed a slight smile as she answered, “He’ll recover. He may limp for a while but the maester assured that there’s no serious damage. He just needs to rest.”

“What he did out there,” Ser Jorah said then, gazing in the distance once more, “He rode into his death out there, to save his people.”

“And you all allowed it,” Sansa said coolly, “All of you allowed it. It’s convenient, I told as much to Jaime Lannister. The king dies, and the North gets devastated by this war, easy to claim once the war is won with no king to rally the men to defend it.”

Ser Jorah looked at her lengthily and suddenly she felt ashamed of herself. “Forgive me,” she said, her tone softer this time. “This is how Jon and I are, he worries about the dead and I worry about what comes after.”

The old knight nodded. “There’s nothing to forgive, my lady. No one knows what comes after, not even the Queen. I know, I asked.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“That she found a solution,” Ser Jorah said more into the distance that to Sansa. “She said it is of no worry, she’s found a solution. Don’t ask my lady, she did not tell me what it was.”

Sansa noted to herself what she’s heard. She couldn’t help but feel the coldness of how it sounded. Whatever that solution was, she thought, she will likely not like it.

“I sought you out because of something else,” Ser Jorah turned back towards her then. “I’ve heard you trained with sword, my lady.”

Sansa smiled, “That is the right way to put it. I trained, I am no fighter. Jon… the king ordered everyone to train, the women and the children too, even the girls. I obey the king’s command.”

The old night smiled at her warmly as he unbuckled his sword belt.

“This sword is the king’s,” he said. “I know he has an old Valyrian steel blade that he fights with, but it is still his and I promised to return it. It once belonged to my family, but my father gave it to Jon Snow.” He sighed. “I would like to think that my father saw what kind of man the king will become. My father was a wise man.”

He took the sword in his hands and offered it to her.

“It is only right that the sword protects the king’s own sister,” he said. “And you know how to wield it. It’s not heavy either, it should serve you well in the fight to come.”

Sansa took the sword, her gaze on the white wolf pommel. Longclaw. She knew that the king had a sword for himself – she spent hours tying and sewing the leather wrap around the hilt, once Davos’ fitted the carved wood cover on the guard. Jon said they need every Valyrian steel sword, that he killed a white walker with Longclaw. That’s what made Davos and Sansa make sure that he had use of the sword they hid until then. It was ingenious really, the sword that was proof of Jon’s heritage now wielded by him in plain sight of everyone, yet no one knew.

“Thank you, Ser,” she said softly, “But the king gave this to you, I doubt that I would do it justice.”

Ser Jorah smiled but didn’t take the sword back.

“You may yet find that you will,” he said, “Samwell Tarly has slain a white walker, if he could, the Lady of Winterfell could slay a dozen.”

Sansa laughed at that, watching the knight bow to her once more.

“I shall tell the queen of the king’s condition,” he said then, “She will be very pleased to hear. She grew very fond of him these past weeks.” With that, he turned and made toward the keep.

Sansa stood frozen. The Queen grew very fond of Jon. What could Jorah Mormont mean by that? She turned toward the fields, taking them in, trying to think. The Queen is fond of Jon. Her Jon. She was right, she didn’t like this, not in the least.

***

Jon pulled himself up in the bed in response to the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said, clearing his throat. He didn’t speak all day, he noted to himself. Not that he minded being alone. He had way too much to think about, yet the day spent in bed could almost feel like he was lifted into a different life, no Night King, no army of the dead, and certainly no troubles about Queens and… troubles about figuring out Sansa. He glanced at the ribbon on his wrist as the door opened, and smiled heartily to see Howland Reed, watching as Reed closed the door and came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I promised you we’ll talk today,” Reed said. Well, so much for a quiet day with no worries, Jon thought sarcastically as he nodded. It was time to return to the present, then. “We both need to find some answers. Your uncle is a mystery to me.”

“You haven’t heard of such a thing before, have you,” Jon asked genuinely curious.

“No,” Reed shook his head, “I wouldn’t have thought it possible. The wights killed him I presume, and perhaps he was found by the Children. Bran also met him North of the wall.”

“Really?” Jon was surprised. Bran never told this to him.

“I asked, Jon,” Reed said as if reading Jon’s thoughts. “Your uncle told him the same story. He also told him he could not come south the wall because of its magic keeping the dead north of it.”

Jon thought about this. The wall fell, and it seems that where it fell, the magic was gone as well. The dead could cross, and thus uncle Benjen could cross, too.

“He told me to count…”

“The days until you kill the Night King,” Reed finished the sentence, “You told me while I stripped you of your frozen garments, I remember.”

“He told me to ask you what it meant.” Jon’s eyes met Reeds then.

“Did you know that I never met your uncle?” Reed asked with a soft smile on his lips, “Truly, as close as I was to Ned, I never met Benjen. To tell you to ask me, that surprises me the most. He seems to know a lot.”

“Yes, he did seem to,” Jon said deep in thought, “But he had no time to explain. The dead were rising.”

“The Queen said she’s burned them on the lake.”

“Aye, she did,” Jon agreed, “Except perhaps a few of ours on the edge. But these weren’t on the lake. These were under the ground.”

“At the Long Lake…” Reed turned away from him, gazing through the window instead. “There was a battle there, long ago. When a previous King Beyond The Wall came south.”

“Raymun Redbeard was his name, he’s had his whole army climb the wall. The Starks fought him at the Lake, in fact he’s beheaded the Warden, only to have the Heir slay him. And all his sons, too if I recall correctly. It was long ago, way before our time.”

“They were skeletons,” Jon said lowly, “those who rose from underground. There was so many of them…”

“The Nights Watch must’ve buried them, then,” Reed said. “I recall they were late to the battle, so they were punished by having to bury the dead.”

“Great,” Jon hissed. “We burn thousands and he just raises another army of skeletons for himself. I gave orders to burn the bodies in cemeteries and crypts. Sansa burned all our ancestors to prevent this. Now he’s got a new army.”

“Not quite,” Reed said. “The numbers can’t be so clear. The Queen burned a good twenty thousand, she believes. Only the Starks and the Umbers fought against Redbeard, and how much of an army can climb the wall?”

“We could say then that he’s replaced half of those we burned,” Jon remarked with an angry sigh. “At least we won’t fight against the knights of the Vale, then. It’s somewhat easier this way.”

“You saw our forces with the army of the dead?”

“I fought one, even,” Jon said nonchalantly, “or more like, I rode past and cut him down.”

“What you did out there, Jon,” Howland looked deep in Jon’s eyes as he took his hand, “It was brave, truly brave. But also, it was reckless beyond belief. You’re a king now, behave like one.”

“I can’t send others to do my work for me,” Jon said sternly.

“Yes, you can, and any of us would’ve volunteered,” Reed countered, “There’s countless of us. There’s only one you. Remember your uncle’s words.”

“That he knows me? The Night King.”

“Did your uncle tell you that?” Reed looked worried to Jon as he asked for his confirmation.

“Aye, Benjen said that he knows who I am and is searching for me.”

“Gods,” Reed sighed. “If I knew better I would ship you to Dragonstone for the next eighty days.”

“Eighty days…” Jon repeated, “Please tell me we aren’t to fight them for eighty more days. We can’t withstand them for that long.”

Reed smiled at him, reassurance on his face just as much as worry. “I know Jon, I know, and yet we must.”

“How much do you know about your father? We never talked about him, do you know why he chose your mother?”

Jon shrugged, “Some kind of prophecy.”

“I said, you are the son of ice and fire. She was ice, and he was fire.” Jon remembered Rhaegar’s letter to maester Aemon as Reed said this. He wrote, ‘she is ice.’

“Your father believed in one of the stories about how The Long Night ended. He believed in the prophecy that when they come again, a hero will emerge, the prince that was promised.”

“He knew they will come again,” Jon added to Reed’s explanation, “He wrote as much to maester Aemon. They both believed it.”

“Have you heard of this story?” Jon shook his head. He couldn’t remember, honestly. He remembered reading a book that maester Aemon gave him, about the Long Night.

“During the Long Night, Azor Ahai forged a sword. He worked on it for thirty days but when he tried to temper it in water, it shattered. Then he worked on it for fifty days and tried to temper it by slaying a lion, and it broke. Then he worked on it for a whole hundred of days, and…” Reed took a deep breath. “He slayed his own wife with it, whom he loved dearly. He sacrificed her to temper the sword and it is believed that her very soul went into the sword, and it alit with fire. Lightbringer it is called. He slayed the walkers with it and put and end to the threat.”

“And by counting the days…” Jon tried to usher on a conclusion, his mind keen to find a flaw.

“You would need a hundred days. Then you kill him with Lightbringer.”

“We don’t have that sword,” Jon reasoned.

“No, you have to temper a sword to become Lightbringer,” Reed explained, and seeing Jon’s sunken shocked face, he added, “IF this story is true. But this is what I believe.”

“Thank the Gods I don’t have a wife,” Jon whispered, the thought of slaying a loved one, the woman he loved, seemed unbearable a feat to him.

“No, you don’t,” Reed said, “and what matters is the love, not that they were wed, I am sure of it.”

“I don’t…. love.” Jon whispered then, “not anyone.”

“Eighty more days is a long time, Jon,” Reed tried to sound soothing, reassuring, seeing the panic settle on Jon’s face. “You may find love in that much time.”

“I will not slay Sansa for the sake of some dead men,” Jon hissed, “I swore to protect her.”

“Why do you choose Sansa?” Reed asked surprised, “I thought you said you don’t love anyone.”

“Who else, Daenerys?” Jon hissed.

“I know you talk of Sansa, Howland. I remember you telling me that I know nothing while staring at her favour on my wrist.” Jon raised his left hand, as if wanting to show Reed the ribbon. “And I tell you, I won’t kill Sansa. It’s not a price I can pay.”

“We’ll see how you’ll think about it eighty or so days from now,” Reed stood as he spoke, “It’ll be desperate enough I presume. Desperate men don’t shy away from anything to end their source of desperation.”

Jon stared out the window, not wanting to look at Reed anymore. “I would’ve told you either way,” Reed said then, as he walked to the door and turned, “You needed to know. You need to understand who you are. And you need to stop doing stupid things risking your death because if you die, we all die.” With that, he left.

It couldn’t be true. Perhaps it wasn’t. After all, what was this, another story? But Jon couldn’t think of a story that wasn’t proven to be true. The stories of dead men were true. Of mammoths, and giants, those stories were true. The horn of Joramun brought down the wall, that was true, and the wall had magic keeping the Dead out, and in the north. That was true as well. He wondered long whether he could come up with something. Ice spiders. He’s never seen ice spiders, in fact he’s never seen giant spiders, living or dead. No, Howland Reed was wrong. This was to be just another story that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be, because if it was, Jon wished he’d rather be dead himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Jon’s “Sansa is a woman” thoughts - imagine you learn that someone you won’t see for long, perhaps ever, is really into you. You’re close. Then you go away and you’re left pondering on it with a memento of that person. Per human nature you get to boil, as in, you grow a liking to that person because human nature is wanting to be loved. Then you reunite with them and you see them according to the “liking” you developed like, you start to “recognise” them in a different light based on all the thoughts you had wondering about them being into you. That’s what Jon is in atm.  
> \- about Jon pondering “to roll over and love her” - human nature. While the wound would probably cause less pondering on such things, he’s just fought three battles in quick succession and almost died. Like after a fight, the body would release the adrenaline and “switch off” which Jon to a degree recognises.  
> \- Dany’s solution and fondness comes later - this was a Sansa chapter, I think the next one I’ll make a Dany chapter to balance it.  
> \- Howland Reed has ideas... like really, he thinks he figured it all out it seems.
> 
> I warned you guys, shit will start to go down in all directions..... ;) From now there’ll be little peace until the end I think.


	25. Winterfell III / II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys

Jon leaned back on the cushions with a sigh, a hand massaging his forehead. The sun must be going down, he thought. His day of rest, the only day he was willing to allow himself, was quickly coming to end. Tomorrow he’ll have to try and stand on his feet. He’ll have to walk, and climb stairs, and train as well, to see how much his injury infected his ability to fight. Tomorrow he’ll have to be king again, visible to the people, reassuring in his presence, regardless of how he knew that there was no assurance at all that he could provide.

Perhaps he should tell them the truth, he thought. He should tell them that an army of dead men are now truly marching against them. They’ll have to fight, bleed and die, and they have to kill as many as possible. Perhaps they will have to abandon Winterfell and retreat into the wilderness, to Castle Cerwyn, if Jon was to follow his plan. They had the right to know, Jon thought. They also had the right to know other things, but after the scolding he’s had from Sansa, Jon knew better than to tell.

She’s had her reasons, Jon had to admit that her reasons were sound. What would the people think if they were told that their king betrayed them and wasn’t whom they believed, just before the hardest battle for their lives? What would the Lannisters think, what would the Dragon Queen say? When Jon dismissed these stating they had to learn sooner or later, Sansa looked at him with so much anger in her sea blue eyes that he was taken aback and silenced. Then came Sansa’s greatest reason. While he fights and bleeds and almost dies for them, does he really owe them anything more? Doesn’t he lie to them in their own interest? And Jon knew that she was right. She made him promise then, not to tell, not until it became unavoidable, and so Jon settled himself for more doubt knowing that this was another promise he’s bound to that won’t give him much more than misery.

To his own surprise, he didn’t ponder much on Sansa herself. From the initial shock of seeing her, it was more of a silent acceptance and appreciation on Jon’s part. She was truly different now. She wore that leather armour, and she wore a cloak, but what else she wore stunned Jon. It seemed as if she dressed for riding, or as if Arya became her advisor, because Sansa wore breeches. Jon questioned it and she remarked, they seem to be warmer. She wore a long overcoat and her armour, and her coat was open in the front and back to allow movement, even though it was almost long enough to pass as a Lady’s skirt. Jon liked it very much. It seemed to him as if she became a different person, her face that of Sansa, her long auburn curls flowing freely except the small bun at the back of her head holding back some of her locks on the top of her head, braided neatly. That was the Sansa Jon liked, she wore her hair like this on the day he was proclaimed king. But the rest of her was different. She wore that chain necklace that she took to ever since they took back Winterfell, that Jon could never understand, and now she also wore a swordbelt, his own swordbelt, visibly fresh holes beaten into the leather to allow her to attach it to her tiny waist. She had Longclaw on her side that Ser Jorah returned. That provided Jon with some relief as he noted to himself, that Sansa was ready for a fight. From the point of realisation, he didn’t really consider more. He had to stop thinking about such things, he urged himself, he had to begin to focus.

Sansa wasn’t his only visitor today after Howland Reed so harshly revealed to Jon what he surely must’ve believed to be the truth, and each and every one of them scolded him. Sam came and scolded him for his actions at the Long Lake, in what seemed like the first time in Jon’s life to hear Sam angry, truly angry with him. But then he asked how he could help, and Jon tasked him to find anything and everything he could about the Long Night and Azor Ahai. Arya came, pushing Bran’s wheelchair, and they weren’t happy with Jon either. Jon smiled once more at Arya’s joke, that he better not kill himself in foolish raids else she, Arya will have to kill the Night King and steal all Jon’s glory. It wasn’t really funny, the thought of Arya fighting or killing anything still didn’t bode well with Jon, but he laughed at it regardless when she said it, and he smiled at it now. To his relief at least Jaime Lannister didn’t scold him. Lady Brienne did, in her usual stern fashion, asking for his approval to speak before she began, and excusing herself once she finished. Jon wondered if there was anyone in this world with more honour and courtesy in them than Brienne of Tarth.

Jaime Lannister didn’t say a word about it, in truth, but Jon could read more in his eyes than all the scolding he’s received. Jaime wasn’t disapproving, Jon could tell, to him Jaime seemed more as if he envied Jon. It made Jon wonder, why would one of the greatest knights, one of the most known names envy him. Perhaps Jaime Lannister had a death wish. The two spoke of battlement defence plans and trenches that have been dug, and pikes with dragonglass heads. They were trying to complete Winterfell’s preparation for battle and siege. Jon found that his mind didn’t follow. He knew nothing about actual sieges, maester Luwin clearly was no expert in the matter, he thought. They wanted him to resolve their argument, as well. Jaime reasoned that the walls are their greatest defence, and they should retreat behind them instead of fighting outside, which would only grant more dead to the army of the dead. Brienne was having none of it, she wanted to fight, to take a stand as she said using Jon’s own words against Jaime. Jon reluctantly agreed with Brienne, reasoning that if they fought outside the walls, they gained at least one more line of defence. He then tasked them to figure an evacuation plan back into the castle for those outside.

He was sitting in his bed now, waiting for one more visitor, his mind slipping back to the first conversation he’s had today – the one with Howland Reed. Jon remembered now, he indeed read about this Azor Ahai in one of Maester Aemon’s books the old maester gave Jon to spend his rare free time with. They now seemed more of a collection of lectures, really, from a book about good kingship through the long night, to the peoples of Westeros. Jon wondered how a man like Reed, seemingly so knowledgeable, could be so certain of a prophecy that to him seemed more like a gruesome fairytale. The lonely hero who sacrificed his love for the good of his people and the world. Jon’s thoughts surprisingly didn’t linger on the deed itself. He wondered how Azor lived once the Others were defeated, how he reconciled with himself what he’s done. He must’ve been miserable for the rest of his life, Jon concluded, for giving up everything for the world. Was the world thankful? Yes, the people sang songs in his praise that as it seemed could survive to this day, but was the people truly thankful? Did they hail him as their saviour? More importantly, did any of them care to understand how their saviour felt and the price he paid?

Knocks on the door dragged him back from his thoughts, and he smiled widely to see Davos stepping into the room.

“I’m surprised it took you so long to come, Ser Davos,” Jon said then, his voice surprisingly cheerful at seeing the old knight once more.

“I thought to leave the important folks to come to you first, your grace,” Davos said kindly.

“The Hand of the king is important enough to come first,” Jon countered with an eyebrow drawn high, still smiling.

“I would not think you agree with that statement, your grace,” Davos said as he sat on the edge of the bed, where Reed sat that same morning. Seeing the smile fade into confusion on Jon’s face, he added, “The place of the Hand is beside the King.”

This was it, then. “Davos, you are no fighter,” Jon said, raising a hand to stop the man from interrupting him, “Your place was here to prepare, carry out my orders and assist Sansa. That is where I needed you. And I really could do without another argument, of this, or what I’ve done the way home.”

Davos nodded with a slight smile. “How are you feeling,” he asked, glancing at the gash on Jon’s thigh.

“It hurts much less than how it looks,” Jon said, for truly, it didn’t. The air may have done it good for it seemed to give in to recovery, whatever Reed has poured onto it seemed to do its work swiftly. “I’ll be on my feet come tomorrow.”

“You could not walk on your feet yesterday,” Davos remarked, doubt in his voice. “Perhaps a few more days in this bed would do you good.”

Jon laughed. “I doubt Sansa could put up with me in her bed for a day longer.”

Davos just smiled at that. “The lady Sansa would put up with you locked in her chambers for much longer than that, if it means you don’t go and charge into armies of dead men,” he said softly, but his eyes didn’t argue.

“I need your advice,” Jon said suddenly.

“With the lady Sansa?”

“No,” Jon shook his head, before he realised, “I mean, yes, and no. I need your advice about Howland Reed. About a lot of things really, I find that a few weeks without my Hand leaves me with a long list of things I need advice about.”

Davos chuckled at that, “Perhaps the place of the Hand is indeed with the king.” He watched as Jon gazed out the window, obviously looking for where to start, “At the beginning your grace, start at the beginning.”

Jon raised his left hand to show him the wrist, and the ribbon tied onto it. Davos nodded with an eyebrow raised and a slight smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“I told you Davos, I am shit with women.”

“You are,” Davos laughed, “But you’re one handsome bastard of a king, as well, and you’re brave and honourable and your people adore you. And you brood too much, women like that sort of thing in a man for some reason. They will line up regardless of how shit you are with them.”

“This one is enough,” Jon said, “I don’t think I need another ribbon on my other wrist.”

“I think she won’t treat in favours, your grace, the other one,” Davos remarked, “I think she treats in kingdoms. But I may be wrong. It is just that, the Dragon Queen enquired eagerly after your welfare.”

“She’s not so bad, you know,” Jon smiled. “She can be quite amicable, really. And she can burn tens of thousands of dead men.”

“Aye, she’s quite comely too,” Davos said with a grin, shot down by Jon’s piercing gaze.

“As I see it,” Davos began, “we will beat the dead, Jon. You will beat them. And we’ll have to prepare to what comes after because they are marching around in your kingdom, and winter is here.”

“We need to defeat them first, Davos,” Jon sighed, “which leads to my need of advice about Howland Reed.”

“I thought you grew quite fond of Lord Reed,” Davos remarked, yet there was no accusation in his voice.

“I have,” Jon agreed, “And I still am quite fond of the man. But he’s told me something that made me wonder… I wonder what he wants.”

“He wants to see you on the Iron Throne, Jon.” Davos’ face was full of understanding, Jon thought, as if he knew just how unimaginable the same prospect sounded to him.

“There is no such thing as the Seven Kingdoms, Davos, not anymore,” Jon whispered. “The North is an independent kingdom. I would be a fool to claim the Southern six kingdoms for myself, being of the North, when I honestly can say I have no care for them. I fight for the North.”

“I think Lord Reed knows this, Jon,” Davos said, “But I think he sees past of what you want. We don’t always get what we want.”

“No, I never get what I want.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Have you heard of Azor Ahai and his flaming sword?” Jon asked, only to be surprised at the sudden shadow on Davos’ face.

“The red witch Melisandre, she kept going on about Stannis being this, Prince that was promised. She somehow made his sword alit with fire, too, called it Lightbringer. What a bunch of bullshit, that all was. They all died anyway, and Melisandre would have joined them if your mercy didn’t save her from me.”

“I knew I should speak to you,” Jon remarked kindly, “For Howland believes it is me. This prince that was promised. In fact, it seems my father believed it, too.”

“Tell me please that Lord Reed is not a fire worshipper…” Davos whispered then, causing Jon to laugh.

“No, Ser,” he explained, “The Lord Reed is quite happy with the Old Gods, with all the greenseeing and the warging that his blood and faith allows him. Which is why I cannot dismiss it as the same fanatism. Howland is an educated man, and one with great knowledge. I remember Lord Ned speaking of him fondly, calling him the wisest man north of the Trident.”

“And yet he believes this fairytale...”

“Every fairy tale I was told as a child was true. Dragons, giants, mammoths and dead men… all true. Even how the wall went down was something I thought to be but a story, and it was true. I’ve not seen ice spiders, and I hope I never will, but by the Gods, Davos, it is all true.”

Davos sighed at that. “So what does this mean, you are the prince that was promised, what does that give you?”

“It should make me able to kill him…” Jon whispered, “but, if the story is true, there’s a price.”

Davos looked at Jon for a moment. What else could this young man give, that he hasn’t given yet, he thought. Then he understood, as Jon raised his left wrist once more, shaking it slightly to make the ribbon flow in the air. Then Davos sighed again.

“Do tell.”

“Azor Ahai could only forge Lightbringer by slaying the woman he loved. Howland believes I must do the same. Except, this,” he motioned his left wrist to indicate what he was talking about, “this is but a ribbon Davos. And I would never. I would slay the whole world before I raise a hand to her.”

“If this is true, the Night King may just do you the favour of slaying the whole world,” Davos said softly.

“Aye, Howland says eighty days can make me much more desperate to kill the Night King by the end of it.”

“Eighty days?”

Jon nodded. “If the story is true, we’ll have to hold them back for eighty more days, before I can kill him.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

Jon gave the old night a slight smile, “Aye, it sounds like that, but my uncle Benjen said something similar. My uncle who’s been dead but not really, because he’s not like them, who’s saved me and Edric by catching some of our horses. I would’ve died there otherwise. He’s told me to count the days until I can kill him, too.”

“It starts to look like everyone knows more than you.” Davos remarked, “Than us.”

Jon chuckled at that.

***

She swiftly made her way through the corridors, two unsullied closely behind her. She stayed away for most of the day, knowing full well that everyone sought audience with the king, but this was all the patience she could muster in herself. Daenerys Targaryen is not used to being made to wait, she thought to herself, without any judgement either towards herself, or towards others whom she willingly waited for today. It wasn’t easy. She kept pacing the length of her room all day, interrupted by glancing out to the courtyard at every noise in panic that the dead arrived, chuckling to herself at how fearful these past weeks have made her.

The problem with this wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate being made to wait in general, but that she’s spent hours convincing herself of what she wanted to say. She kept wondering about it, after spending a considerable amount of time wondering about the king. Ever since her discussion with Lord Reed, really, and mainly, her thoughts preceding that discussion. But most of all, it was caused by something that Lord Reed told her, that both she and the king deserved happiness.

Dany thought a lot since, while flying in circles guarding the two riders on their way to safety. She did land and offer them to take them, but Jon’s commander couldn’t have held on atop a dragon, and Jon would’ve never left him behind. All she could do is watch out for them and guard them, until they reached the cross roads where but a moon past they turned toward the wall. Then she flew ahead to Winterfell. She was scared. It was the last part of the journey, and she could see Jon Snow struggling to stay atop the horse, just as much as the horse struggled to keep going on. She couldn’t bear to watch it anymore. That is why she left them, praying that they’ll make it.

They did, and she watched from a window the king’s arrival to Winterfell. She watched as the king’s sister rushed forth, and they held on to each other, for long, much longer than Daenerys thought appropriate. Lord Reed stepped in to help, then one of the Stark men stepped in, and they helped the king into the keep. But for her, it was as if they never moved. She could see Jon holding his sister long after the courtyard cleared.

There was no news about the king that day, and the night that followed. She feared that the king would die. Even watching his struggle throughout the journey was better than sitting in her room, wondering how he was. Not only that, but the amount of wondering and worrying she did really disturbed her. She spent hours awake in the night, her thoughts with Jon Snow, and she couldn’t even reason why, she told herself. That was a lie. Somewhere above them atop a dragon, she realised why. She couldn’t bear the thought that he could die. If only she could accept it in herself that she was indeed drawn to this man, she could perhaps figure out why Jon Snow had such an effect on her. Was it because he was so damn handsome, or was it because he didn’t throw himself at her feet? Or was it because he was brave and honourable and smart and wise and caring and kind and…. What was it that she felt, Daenerys wondered.

It came to her suddenly, while watching the guards change in the morning, a sudden realisation hit her. She knew the solution to all her problems. Perhaps not all, that wasn’t true – she didn’t know of a solution to wipe out the dead in an instant. But for the rest, she knew the solution. She couldn’t wait to talk about it with Jon Snow, she felt, and yet she had to wait. She had to make sure that when she goes to him, no one will interrupt, that they’ll be left alone. And she had to figure out what she’ll say. While the first one was only a matter of time, the second one proved that much more difficult. In truth, she just stopped at the door of the lord’s chamber and she still didn’t know what she will say.

She knocked softly and waited until she heard him shout, ‘come in’. After all, she couldn’t have known if he was presentable, not that it mattered to her. Not now.

She softly closed the door behind her, glad to have seen that she was greeted with a genuine smile. She walked close to sit on the edge of the bed as he pulled himself up to sit. He looked much better than she expected. Daenerys tried not to glance at the wound on his thigh too much but couldn’t help it. It was clean, left to heal, and it looked enormous. But other than that, he seemed to be doing just fine. More than fine really. She was surprised at how his sight melted her heart in all the ways she’s not felt before. Because now, she knew, she thought.

The king wore a creased linen shirt, with a white wolf above his heart, and it was open in the front leaving his collarbones and chest visible to her. His hair was untied, and messy, countless curly locks framed his sleepy face. He was dozing, Dany chuckled to herself. He seemed as if he came from a completely different time, she could’ve imagined him in a completely different place and setting, perhaps just sitting up on the bed to greet her as if she came to retire for the night, candlelight softly dancing on his face. The impact he had on her was profound. She looked him over, while he brushed his curls out of his face, her eyes slowly taking in his sight, his collarbones, his figure as it disappeared under the furs, the shapes of him as much as she could make out. He enticed her, and he wasn’t even trying, he didn’t even speak a word, and he so intensely enticed her with just his being now, that she knew what she wanted to say.

“How are you?” She asked softly, her hand reaching for his. He took her hand, his fingers gently settling in her palm.

“As well as I could be, I suppose,” he said with a smile. “After a day of scolding and battle plans and other unpleasantness.”

“I figured it was better to stay away,” she responded, returning the smile, “Else I would be added to the list of those bringing you unpleasantness.”

He chuckled. He seemed so carefree now, she thought, as if there was no war to fight and no kingdom to rule, as if he was just a man.

“Thank you, Dany,” he whispered then, his smile fading. There was a war to fight, and he wasn’t just an ordinary man. “For saving us. For staying back to guard us, thank you.”

She smiled, for she had nothing to say. To her, it was without question that she would save him, she would stay behind.

“I wonder how many times you saved my life,” he whispered, as if he knew her thoughts and she shifted on the bed to move closer to him.

“Just as I wondered what else I could do to stop you from dying,” she whispered. “I could not bear that.”

He looked surprised, straight into her eyes. She glanced down on his hand in hers, at the ribbon, that was still tied on his wrist.

“You wouldn’t have to deal with the King in the North anymore,” he said then with a slight grin.

“I grew rather fond of him,” she countered, watching as his eyes gazed away to the fire in the hearth. He didn’t speak, for long moments, and once more she just waited.

“What are you telling me, Dany,” he whispered, looking back straight into her eyes.

“That I like you, Jon Snow, King in the North,” Dany said softly, “And I liked it even better if you didn’t die in this war.”

“If you mean to scold me for riding out, you may join the long line of those who already did,” he grinned.

“No,” she leaned across him, resting on her arm. She wanted him to see her, only her. “I mean that there is a future beyond this war. One that has need of Jon Snow. I’ll have need of Jon Snow.”

He sighed, “First we have to win this war.”

“And we will,” Dany said sternly, “I promise you, we will. We will destroy them all. And when we are done with them…” she swallowed, wondering if it was right to say for a short moment, “When we are done, I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal…” He repeated, his eyes piercing hers.

“Yes, Jon, a proposal. One that could allow independence for the North. A proposal of coalition, of sorts. An alliance.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, and she could see that he truly didn’t.

“I mean to take the Iron Throne, I will take it,” she said, feeling his fingers tense in hers as he tried to pull back, but she squeezed them stronger. “When I take it, I will grant independence to the North. You earned it, Jon, you and your people for suffering through this war. I will grant it, and we will remain allies, the North and South in a coalition. We will seal our alliance the best way possible and no man or woman will doubt it is real, because we fought together, in this war.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “And what is the best way possible to seal an alliance?”

“Marriage.”

Jon gasped, doing his best to hide it. “Are you asking me to…”

“Yes, Jon Snow,” she laughed, “I am asking you to marry me. But don’t answer just yet, there are things you ought to know before you do.”

His jaw dropped. It was rather out of the blue to him, Dany thought. But Tyrion counselled her once regarding marriage alliances, and who would be better fitting than the man who holds half the continent? Daenerys thought it was the most elegant solution to give everyone what they wanted. And she wouldn’t mind, not at all. Going to bed with Jon Snow didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, as she once more looked him up in his creased linen shirt and unruly hair. But she had to tell him, now.

“House Targaryen is dead, Jon. It was extraordinary once, but no more. You’re a Snow, you don’t carry the weight of furthering the name of your house either. I am asking you to build the new world with me, break the wheel that kept me in exile and kept you in the shadows bearing a bastard’s name, so that when we leave this world, we leave it better than we found it.”

“House Targaryen is not dead. You’re not the last.”

“I can’t have children,” she merely whispered the words, her eyes searching his looking for any sign of disapproval at her greatest regret.

“Who told you that?”

“The witch who murdered my previous husband.”

Jon raised both his eyebrows at that. “And has it occurred to you that she may not have been a reliable source of information?”

She chuckled, “I know it’s true, Jon. I know because I don’t have children.”

“You…” he trailed off.

“Had lovers? Yes,” she said, “Men are all the same in that regard. A queen, and a beautiful woman, and they drop themselves at her feet for attention, all of them. All, except you.”

He seemed to think hard about what he’s heard. It must be a lot to take in, Daenerys thought, from outcast bastard to king, to commander, and now, possibly the consort of the Queen, of a Targaryen. She watched as his eyes dropped at their hands.

“You don’t have to answer now,” she said softly, “I know you didn’t expect it. That much I know about you, Jon. You don’t expect people to give you anything. But I would give you this. Think about it.”

He nodded, and she acutely felt the distance between them now, where but moments ago they were so close, smiling at each other. She stood. She didn’t like it the least bit, but she’s already made up her mind to give him time, and so she shall.

As she stood she leaned down to brush a few locks out of his face, and their eyes met once more. She saw pain in them, to her surprise. She leaned down to place a kiss on his cheek but changed her mind. She softly kissed his lips instead.

He didn’t return the kiss, but as she parted from him his eyes were locked in his. They troubled her, they gave her an uneasy, restless feeling as if he already rejected her. He would not reject her, would he? She realised she never considered the option.

She looked back as she reached the door, her hand on the handle, “Think about it, Jon. Think about all the good we could do together. We would be unbeatable together. We would be perfect.”

He didn’t respond, just kept gazing at the fire, and so she left.

Howland Reed stood outside the door. The guards must’ve held him up to give her privacy with Jon, she thought. Reed bowed to her with a smile, that she returned.

“I wish you good night, Lord Reed,” she said and walked away, her heart pumping in her chest. It was out, she told him. But she didn’t feel the release that comes after she triumphed at something. She felt uneasy, wondering if he could actually reject her offer.

***

Jon barely noticed that someone walked into the room, until Reed sat beside him where a few moments ago Daenerys sat holding his hand. He could still feel her lips on his, the fire they incited in him was still filling his veins boiling his blood, filling him with something not unlike desire, to his surprise.

“Your Hand sought me out,” he heard Reed, “To ask me to stop filling your head with horror stories.”

Jon chuckled. “Davos is rather protective of me,” he said, finally looking at Reed. “He’s lost a son a few years ago. Perhaps it helps him to treat me as if I was his replacement. But Davos is my Hand, and I hold no secrets from him.”

Reed nodded, without any accusation in his eyes.

“I know what I told you is hard to accept,” he said, wondering how to continue, until he looked at Jon again and saw, the king was elsewhere in his mind.

“What did she want,” he asked, his voice full of worry.

“She offered her hand in marriage,” Jon said, his voice void of any emotion as if he recited the alphabet. “The North’s independence, for my hand in marriage and a Coalition between North and South, that is how she called it.”

Jon looked at Reed then, deep in thought. “Hmmm. I didn’t expect that,” Reed said, “but it makes perfect sense.”

“What?!” Jon sat up ignoring the sharp pain that shot in his thigh.

“You’ll need to wed sooner or later, Jon,” Reed reasoned, “You’re a king. Kings don’t marry for love, they marry for an alliance, and to have heirs to follow them after they’re gone. She’s the best anyone could ever hope for to achieve an alliance lasting for generations.”

“It wouldn’t,” Jon said in disbelief. “Last for generations. She can’t have children.”

“So who would come after her? After you both?”

“She talks about breaking the wheel,” Jon said solemnly, “I presume she means breaking the custom of inheritance because she’d have no heir. I must tell her, Howland, she has to know. She thinks she’s the death of her house.”

“You must do no such thing,” Reed said. “Unless having children is so important to you.”

“I never thought I could have children. I vowed I will never sire children.”

Reed sighed, watching him, Jon felt his gaze on him as he returned to staring into the fire.

“What was your answer?” Reed asked then.

“She didn’t ask for one,” Jon whispered. “She said I have time to think about it.”

“Well, then,” Reed made his way to the door, “Only you can make this decision, so I leave you to think about it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... when I wrote the story the favour appeared like 10 chapters too early because I forgot to read my brief. So I had to scrap that and rethink this whole “love triangle” and give things new meanings. Things appear earlier than I planned, but really this is not an “I love you, marry me”. This is a solution that Dany likes because she’s growing to like Jon Snow very much and in her eyes, she resolved all their problems - including the problem why there could’ve never been anything with him ruling the north and her claiming it - while she’d get a husband she finds worthy as much as she can tell atm.  
> For the record in the original brief this didn’t happen at all anywhere she never had to ask. But she needs to step up and start pressing her side since the favour ribbon is there for long now.


	26. Winterfell III / III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - Jonerys / implied Jonsa

Jon stood on the rampart, her gaze scanning the Unsullied camp. Dozens upon dozens of small black tents lining up neatly against the wall, their inhabitants marching around in small groups as if that was the only way they ever knew, and they could never relax. Just walk, Jon thought, for once just make the decision to do something different, something else than what is expected of you.

He chuckled to himself. As if he ever did anything than what was expected of him. There were times, true, when he was disobedient. When he went after Caster to see where he took his new-born babe, he disobeyed a direct command. But he did it because he knew, the babe was in danger, because he felt it and he wanted to see. When he shot his arrow into Mance’s heart, just as the flames began to take him, he disobeyed a command that in truth had no authority over him. No king had authority in Castle Black, the whole business of burning Mance Rayder alive was a sham. Just as much as it was dishonourable, Jon thought back then, and thought just the same now. He tried to remember other occasions when he did something unexpected. It was a bitter realisation that he couldn’t recall anything else.

Like these unsullied who never relaxed, never stepped out of line, Jon was doing all that was expected of him. He was angry, so very angry at himself. He did what Sansa expected of him and took back the north. He did what the North expected of him and took the title of king to lead them. All right, these were necessary. But he’s still done a lot of things that weren’t. He should’ve given that ribbon back to Sansa, tell her that this is no time for such things and they should see what comes after once the war is won, because that’s what he thought. He should’ve told Howland Reed that he would never ever stab anyone he loved, the whole world can turn into blue eyed zombies for all he cared but he’ll protect those he loved. He should’ve told Daenerys the truth about who he was instead of tying her, and the Lannisters for that matter, and the North, to a lie.

As if on cue, the dragons landed beyond the Unsullied tents. She climbed – no, walked – off the black one with such ease, it amazed Jon. The other thing amazing him was how he didn’t even feel different at Rhaegal’s presence. As if his mind grew accustomed to it, the burst of energy and warmth he knew was nothing more than a slight tingling now. Perhaps the dragon lost interest, he thought, perhaps the dragon knew that he didn’t deserve a dragon’s attention.

It all started so well, he thought he could play this game. It seemed so easy, when did things become this complicated? Part of him remembered Davos’ reasoning earlier in the morning while his Hand helped him dress: You cannot tell how other people will affect you. You think you have a plan, but there are others who think they have a plan, and plans clash as they are bound to clash, and the result is this mess. Howland Reed had a plan, one years in the making, Jon thought. It was a plan of seeking redemption, as far as Jon could tell, of helping him reclaim what was taken from him by Robert Baratheon. The fact that what was taken from him was completely alien to him, didn’t matter. It couldn’t – Reed spent long years making up his mind, living in his shame as Jon could tell. He made his plan and Jon’s own ideals clashed with it. Then there was Sansa, who’s plans Jon couldn’t even tell. Not because of her cunning wisdom, but Jon began to feel as if Sansa never had a plan. As if Sansa was surprised at her own feelings for him so much that she couldn’t make anything of them, and she waited to see how things unfolded. Jon regretted his thoughts of Sansa now, the thoughts when he woke in the night and she confirmed her love for him as much as she could, without actually saying so, and all Jon could think of is easing his mind through other bodily activities. He was glad that he knew restraint because if he didn’t he’d be in an even bigger mess now. And Sansa wasn’t happy with him now. Jon’s eagerness to leave her chambers and have one prepared for himself didn’t bode well with Sansa, not at all in fact.

Then there was Daenerys. Jon could figure that the Queen came north with no plans at all beyond fighting the dead. He could also figure that was it he who advised Daenerys, he’d advise her to attack the Lannister forces on northern soil. Jon handled that as much as he could; and got confirmation of it as much as he could. He expected Daenerys to demand his bending the knee, either during or after the war against the dead. He was duly prepared to do so, and then reveal who he was. He and Davos discussed this, and discussed that no one else should know their plans, but if the Queen ever forced him to kneel, he would reveal his true identity. He had no true right to the North, and thus it’d fall on Sansa. Sansa would never kneel, Jon knew. The plan was weak – what could Sansa do against three fire breathing dragons, what could the North do? Jon hoped that his identity would make Dany considerate, but it wasn’t more than a flicker of hope.

Then he found, that as they prepared the defence of the wall, as they lost that battle and retreated, as they fought every chance they had to reduce the number of the dead, he grew to respect the Dragon Queen. His aunt, by blood, he thought, though the thought was so foreign, further away even than the Iron Throne itself. Jon remembered in the cave on Dragonstone, when he caught a glimpse of who she was, or at least he thought he caught a glimpse. He could see more of her, when she approached him to thank him, when she sought his advice. She wasn’t easy to read, that’s for sure. Where Sansa was an open book as much as Jon could tell, as much as he could read any woman, Dany was a complete mystery.

Jon thought back just how many times Dany saved his life. Three, at the least, three retreats. She came north and that counted as the fourth, and the count didn’t stop here, of that Jon was certain. Why didn’t she demand his kneeling was beyond his comprehension. What did he tell Davos? She’s not so bad, she can be quite amicable, really. That was an understatement. The Daenerys Targaryen Jon grew to know wasn’t merely amicable. She was formidable yet soft, firm yet kind, self-assured yet lacking trust in herself. But only Jon saw her softness, kindness and insecurity, he knew that now. Like the young woman in awe in the cave on Dragonstone, these traits became glimpses of her identity that she didn’t allow others to see. But she allowed him to see, why?

She offered him a life by her side, but Jon wasn’t a fool to believe that she grew to love him. Perhaps she was fond of him, just like she said that she was, but she didn’t know him. She didn’t know the real him, she only saw the façade he’s built around the lie that was Jon Snow. Still, Jon was humbled. When he met her, he vowed not to be like any other man, and here he was, at the end of what the journey resulting from that vow, with the result that he should’ve foreseen. She was drawn to him. She herself admitted that much, and Jon had to admit that ow that he allowed himself to think of it, that much was mutual. He wasn’t drawn to the powerful Queen with the three dragons by her side. He didn’t care about such things, he never could, and for that he was glad. He was drawn to the side that only he saw. The sight of her smiling down at him with candlelight gently flickering on her face, her fingers locked around his hand with warmth that could boil his blood. He wasn’t a fool, he recognised it on Dragonstone and he recognised it ever since. She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman Jon ever saw, what man’s blood wouldn’t boil at a single touch of her hand? But it was more, and now he understood.

The closer she got, the smoother Jon’s connection to Rhaegal became. It was his blood, that otherworldly realisation that she was his kind, he thought, wondering if she felt the same. Could she have felt that invisible force drawing them close? Jon felt it every time they spoke, every time they were alone, and Jon allowed the woman to be near, not the Queen, he felt it. He brushed it aside just as he brushed aside anything else that distracted him from the war, be it Reed’s notion of slaying a woman he’d love to Sansa’s love and devotion to him. He refused to give Dany a single thought. He did so because that was the only way not to drown in his shame, of misleading her, lying to her, betraying her. She wasn’t the distant arrogant Queen Jon met in the throne room of Dragonstone, and the woman she was didn’t deserve what Jon was doing to her. His own values were crawling at it every moment he allowed himself to spend with considering her, and so he couldn’t, he just simply couldn’t.

But now he couldn’t resist anymore. She would be his wife, he only had to agree. The beautiful petite woman with a wonder of a smile and those violet eyes like the sky just before the sun rises or sets, would be willing to be his wife. She would be willing to show him what laid underneath the many facades, the woman he only had glimpses of, and she would be willing to show him what was underneath the layers of furs she wore, she would be willing to share. The fact that Jon would explore was no question, he knew as much since Dragonstone. But knowing that it was within arm’s reach, he only needed to agree and she would be his, that was hard to fathom.

Jon watched as she stood by the dragons, speaking to Ser Jorah and the girl from Naath. Missandei. I ought to use her name, he reminded himself. He watched her smile, and he couldn’t help but wonder, how would it work? What would it be like to be bound to her, to share her worries during the days and share her bed at night? He could love her, perhaps he would grow to love like no man ever loved a woman before. She was like fire that draw close anyone who saw it, Jon’s own men were in awe of the Queen. She could’ve chosen anyone. Yet she chose Jon. Don’t be a fool, he thought, she chose the North. What care would she have for a bastard, was it not for the title of king and a kingdom so vast that its lands covered half of Westeros? For once, Jon gave thanks for his own good looks. At least asking him may not have been so hard, considering his looks. Enough people, men and women alike, told him already that he’s had the looks. Perhaps that helped her come to this conclusion, he thought, because if so, at least some part of him mattered, and it wasn’t merely political.

His eyes fell on the old knight. Ser Jorah Mormont, son of the Old Bear, may have stood in front of his chosen Queen but to Jon, he seemed as if he laid himself at her feet. That was a mistake, my friend. Jon allowed himself a bitter smile. He may be shit with women, but for once, he chose right. Had he explored the implied opportunity during that first dinner on Dragonstone, things would be very different indeed. She’d own him just as she owned Jorah Mormont, and all he would get would be the kind smiles and gestures that Mormont received. He was surprised at his sudden gladness that this was not the case. He could have her. All he needed to do is agree, and politics or otherwise, she would be his, and nobody else’s.

It was tempting him. Leave behind all the sorrows of being a bastard, once and for all, and be a prince, a king, by the side of a queen, have the world at his feet… No, he realised that wasn’t what’s tempting him. He didn’t care about the world at his feet, he didn’t care about being king either. But to leave behind the place he could never truly call home, that was tempting. Winterfell was Sansa’s, of that there was never any doubt in Jon’s mind. Ever since he learned the truth of who he was, he wondered what his destiny was, who was he supposed to become. It’s easy to define his destiny as the prince that was promised, as others call it, fight the darkness that was coming for them all. But beyond that, who was the man who emerged on the other side supposed to be? Jon couldn’t help but think, Daenerys found the answer without knowing the question. In the rare moments he allowed himself to think about his heritage, he’s always wondered what the future could offer to a Targaryen. But for two Targaryens, it could offer each other. Targaryens married within the family for centuries, brothers and sisters even, Aegon the Conqueror married his sisters, and Daenerys was only his aunt. Lord Rickard married his cousin, so did that accursed Tywin Lannister. There wasn’t a noble family in Westeros who didn’t do it. For House Targaryen, it seemed like an obvious choice because there was only two of them. But that struck a different cord. She can’t have children. They should never be married, if Jon ever wanted to become a Targaryen. Not that he considered having children, ever, but the thought of a new-born son in his arms, one he sired, there wasn’t a man who didn’t dream of that moment.

He sighed, watching as she made her way toward the keep. It will not be left for him to decide, he decided. He was king, and it wasn’t a matter to decide by himself. He’ll let the North decide. This was his decision, then, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he just decided to do what he always does – conform to the will of others and do their bidding. But no. Not anymore.

***

They were standing around the table in the small solar, waiting silently. They kept glancing at each other, as if the past weeks of fighting meant nothing or never happened, they were once more measuring each other. There were new faces, too.

Jaime Lannister stood by the door, considerably uncomfortable with a good skill, if not perfect, to mask it, and Brienne stood between him and Sansa, her back straight and her face stern, as always. Sansa and Arya stood motionless, their face emotionless as they took in the sight of the assembly, and between them sat Bran in his wheelchair, face like a stone statuette in the crypt.

Howland Reed stood beside Arya, next to him Queen Daenerys, and her advisors, Missandei, Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont. Lord Glover, just arrived from Deepwood Motte with no reports of disturbance on the road, grumbling as ever, and Lord Hornwood, present in Winterfell for days now, sulked as ever, stood together and the little line was closed by Lord Waynwood, successor of Bronze Royce as the leader of the knights of the Vale but truly, only his former squire and a boy of eighteen, shivering on his first ever war council. Tormund Giantsbane, and finally, Sam Tarly closed the circle, being the only two people who didn’t wonder at whether anyone will slash anyone else’s throat the next moment, Sam busying himself with an enormous book he’s carried around for days.

They were waiting, rather impatiently, for the king. They could hear the knocks on the stone floor getting louder, and finally, Ser Davos Seaworth arrived followed by the king, walking on a crutch. The sight made many of them flinch just as much as the king flinched at every step he took.

Jon closed the door behind himself, for a moment studying the faces, wondering if an apology for his lateness was due, but he dismissed it. Not anymore.

“I trust everyone knows why we are here,” he began, “I want to hear your numbers.” He looked at Sansa.

“Five thousand,” Sansa declared. The forces of House Stark, with only a tenth of it deployed before at the wall, all fresh and ready to fight, Jon thought with relief, “There is also about two thousand from northern houses not represented, therefore fighting under the Stark banners. Men from the Wall.”

Jon nodded, glancing at Daenerys.

“We have 7600 unsullied, and 4800 Dothraki. The rest lost in the previous battles.” Jorah Mormont answered instead, and Jon allowed himself a slight smirk. She was a Queen, she was being served.

“Four thousand,” Glover declared bitterly.

“Three thousand,” Hornwood added in his usual sulked demeanour.

Lord Waynwood sighed. “Four thousand,” he said, “with the soul of five.” They all looked at the boy. It was a hard burden to carry. Those knights will see their comrades, even friends across the battlefield soon, they all understood.

“Five thousand and eight hundred,” Jaime Lannister closed the circle.

“Add to it eight thousand Wolves, and one-and-half thousand of the freefolk,” Jon said, “and we have over forty-five thousand. Not bad, not bad at all.” Some allowed a slight smile at that. Indeed, now that they counted, their chances didn’t look so grim after all.

“Ser Jaime, if you would begin,” Jon’s voice was stern, every bit of that of a king.

Ser Jaime stepped forward.

“We’ve dug trenches all around the keep, three rows. The first row is lined with pitch and has enough pikes to hold up the enemy once it burns. We’ve only bridged the road, but the trench stretches around Winterfell without any other obstacle. The second and third rows are the same, except for the wooden bridges,” he glanced at Grey Worm who nodded.

“The king instructed us to plan for battle outside the walls, and thus we did. We propose to defend the first circle, then the second, and retreat when being overrun becomes inevitable.”

“How do you propose to defend these circles,” Lord Glover was unimpressed.

“We’ll light the first trench when the enemy reaches it. There’ll be no stationed forces between the first two trenches. Instead, the Knights of the Vale and the Dothraki attack on two sides on horseback and run down the enemy once it crossed in sufficient numbers to warrant the attack. This allows both to fight according to their own methods. Once they are unable to hold, they retreat straight into the castle to take up other positions.”

“And where will they attack from?” Ser Jorah asked.

“Wintertown, Ser,” Jaime pointed at the map, the settlement to the south of Winterfell was marked in a circle. “The town is empty and encircled by the first trench. I propose to burn it as soon as it’s no longer used, to form a natural barrier. It is thus that the town is not connected to the second and third trench, we wouldn’t want to alight those prematurely.”

“I agree,” Jon said, hearing their sights, seeing their shocked faces, “Continue.”

“The space between the second and third trenches is to be taken up by Northmen, Unsullied and the Lannister forces. The tactic is the same, cut down as much as possible, retreat when overrun.”

“What of the bridges?” Lord Waynwood seemed to be completely immersed in the plan.

“They break down into the trenches, their front end is lined with dragonglass heads, they’ll join the barrier when pulled in,” Jaime explained. “We’ll burn the trench after retreat, and retreat into the castle. I would suggest retreating and not defend the wall.”

“Why is that?” Glover, as unimpressed as he could ever be, seemed to soon boil over, “You plan to give up good ground.”

“Lord Glover,” Jon began, “There is no retreat beyond the first trench.” He glanced at Jaime who nodded. “The wall has to be defended from above, by archers, barrels of pitch and the like. Anyone who’d be stuck between the trench and the wall is as good as dead, and meat for the army of the enemy. I agree with the plan, unless anyone has other suggestions.”

None did. In truth, they all wondered if they could’ve done better, and all bowed at Jaime Lannister’s detailed plan. Fighting a battle as part of a siege was not something to be done, the king asked for a plan to execute a feat that was unheard of for most of them, and half of them knew nothing of battles anyway. Jon nodded to Jaime to continue.

“We’ll station the freefolk atop the wall,” Jaime said, and Glover hissed.

“We’ll leave our last line of defence to savages!”

“Lord Glover,” Jon’s eyes were cold as ice, “One more of such a statement and you’ll be dismissed from both this council and your command post. You’ll be lucky to wait out the end in the cells with only the Bolton hounds as your company. I wouldn’t wish for it, my Lord. Those hounds devoured their own master and we don’t feed them with human flesh, they are hungry.”

“Perhaps we should slay them,” Sansa remarked. “If they turn…”

Jon looked at her. He’s not thought of this before. He silently nodded to Sansa.

“There are many in the keep still who are unable to fight for their lives,” Sansa continued, “servants, elderly who could not travel. Bran as well.”

“I will not travel,” Bran said solemnly and they all looked towards him.

“And I will not agree to you remaining behind,” Jon hissed, looking back at the assembly. “I want a plan of evacuation by tomorrow. Those who cannot fight are now stuck here. We will not repeat our mistake at the Last Hearth and send them out to die. I also want confirmation on the amount of horses, for the same reason. We cannot outrun them, but on horseback we are able to evacuate we know that.”

“Ser Jaime,” Jon turned to Jaime, “Thank you for your work on the plan. You have my approval.”

He turned back at the table. “I want the dragons burn the lines between the trenches that were overrun. Also, be mindful that it isn’t only men we are facing, they have mammoths, shadowcats, bears and birds. I want the defence mechanism we had atop the wall repeated on the walls of Winterfell.”

“If I may speak,” Sam looked at Jon, the book in his hand. Jon allowed a slight smile as he nodded to his friend.

“I was tasked to search the maps of Winterfell by Lady Brienne,” he begun, “and I found something. It is not a map, it is not on any map. But in the cellar where the wine barrels are stored, behind it there is a gate. I believe it is our way to evacuate.”

They all looked at the delightfully smiling Sam in disbelief, and he dumped the book on the table and opened it at a drawing. “You see, Winterfell was built thousands of years ago, and it has hidden passages in a way that castles no longer do. The crypts overtook most of those, and the ones appearing on maps caved in long ago or were sealed off to form part of the crypts of Winterfell. If this drawing is correct, there is still one from the cellar that doesn’t appear on any map, and it leads south to the river near the Kingsroad.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Do we know this for certain?”

“No,” Lady Brienne answered, “I asked Lord Tarly because I knew your grace would plan an evacuation, as always. But we cannot be for certain that the tunnel is intact, or that it is of sufficient condition.”

“Well, then,” Jon said sternly, “Perhaps we should become certain before plans are made depending on it.”

“I’ll explore the tunnel,” Arya stepped forward. “Give me five men and I’ll do it.”

Jon smiled, “I am not…”

“But I will do it, and you will agree,” Arya interrupted, causing a stir. “Give me Clegane and the one-eyed knight. I hate them enough not to mind if I have to cut their throats in the darkness.”

“I go as well, your grace,” Brienne stood straight at yet another volunteering, and this time, Jon nodded in approval.

“I send a dozen unsullied with you,” Daenerys said, “Grey Worm will lead them. This way, you are defended if you have to retreat back to the castle.”

Jon shot a grateful glance at Daenerys who received it with a smile. Only Bran could see the look Sansa shot at the interaction, the rest of the assembly too occupied with staring at the map.

Jon took a deep breath. “Set out within the hour, and be back by this time, tomorrow, regardless of how far you’ve got.”

Arya’s smile was wide and happy as she left the room, followed by Brienne. Jon looked around once more. “We meet again, tomorrow at the same time. You may leave,” he said, and the little crowd began to slowly depart.

“You did well, Sam,” Jon said glancing at his friend as he walked past, and Sam gave him a warm smile in return. At least someone was feeling hopeful, Jon thought, despite knowing well that Sam was always hopeful. Jon wasn’t, not the least bit.

He felt Sansa’s hand on his as he leaned on the table. Daenerys still stood across the room, sans her advisors.

“What happened on the lake, how many are there?” Jon looked up at the Queen, ignoring Sansa’s gesture.

“About twenty thousand burned. And about ten thousand raised, no more than twelve, but some of those burned as well. He has about fifty-sixty thousand. We have the numbers to end it here.” Daenerys’ voice was clear, confident, “And I scouted this morning. They haven’t left the lake just yet. They are standing still.”

Jon wondered at that. “That is not good for us,” he said lowly, “It may seem good, time being won, but they would not wait. They are waiting for something.”

“What could they be waiting for?” Sansa asked.

“That, I don’t know,” Jon kept studying the map as he spoke, “But it can’t be good for us.”

“Perhaps they are searching for you,” Daenerys said then, “Lord Reed believes they are, that he wants you among his ranks. Perhaps he wants to be certain.”

Jon chuckled. “He can wait until the end of time itself for that.” He stood straight, looking at Daenerys then Sansa, as he pulled his hand from under hers, and he left the room as swiftly as he could on his crutch, without looking back. Outside the room, he stopped beside Ser Davos for a moment and nodded. The old knight remained motionless as Jon slowly limped away.

***

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys began, wondering what ever she could say. The Lady of Winterfell seemed cold to her, and even colder now than ever before, “I was hoping for this chance to speak with you alone.”

Sansa studied the Queen for a moment, hands behind her as she stood straight, before she nodded without any sign of engagement on her face.

“I am glad to see the care and closeness between you and the king,” Daenerys began, as she walked closer to Sansa. “I am just as glad to see his care for you as yours for him, considering you couldn’t have been raised as brother and sister, with him being a bastard.”

“Families are complicated things,” Sansa remarked, wondering whether there was an edge in the Queen’s words or it was merely a badly worded compliment.

“Ours certainly have been,” Daenerys said with a smile as she grabbed a chair from the wall and pulled it to the table.

“A sad thing to have in common,” Sansa remarked, watching as the Queen sat down beside her, motioning for her to do the same. She grabbed a chair and sat by the short side of the table, avoiding being seated next to her.

“We have other things in common,” Daenerys said, her voice even softer this time, “we both know what it means to lead people who aren’t inclined to accept a woman’s rule, and we’ve both done a damn good job of it from what I can tell.”

Sansa allowed herself a slight smile, less in acknowledgement of her words, but more in acknowledgement of where this conversation was leading.

“And yet I can’t help but feel that we are at odds with one another,” Daenerys finished, “Why is that?”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but there were no words to say. She could not tell her, could she, that she saw the stolen looks during the war council, that she saw heard of her enquiries after the king’s welfare, that she’s heard Daenerys grew ‘very fond’ of Jon. Her Jon.

“Your brother.” Daenerys stated.

“Not my brother,” Sansa said coolly, “If I may say, your grace. It is you and what you represent.”

Daenerys’ face stiffened at Sansa’s words. “All my life I’ve known one goal. The Iron Throne. To take it back from the people who destroyed my family and almost destroyed yours. My war was against them. Until I met Jon.”

Jon. Sansa’s face turned to that of pure hatred at hearing the Queen saying the name.

“Now I am here, half a world away, fighting Jon’s war alongside him. What do I represent, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa stared at her for a moment, before she pretended a chuckle, as if she regretted her words. When she looked up from her hand on her lap, her face wore a soft mask, that mask she’s seen many times worn by someone else, someone she’s learned this trade from.

“I should’ve thanked you,” she said, leaning forward resting her hand on the table, as if she was giving in to this conversation, “The moment you arrived. That was a mistake.”

Daenerys laid her hand on Sansa’s.

“I am here, because of your brother. Because I trust him, and I know he’s true to his word. He’s only the second man in my life that I can say that about.”

“Who was the first?”

Daenerys chuckled. “Someone taller, bigger. Not necessarily quicker or better.”

Sansa smiled, laughed as Daenerys allowed a small laugh to herself, her eyes firmly fixed on the Queens as both women began to wonder the other’s thoughts.

“And what happens afterwards?” Sansa asked suddenly. “We defeat the dead and you destroy Cersei. What happens then?”

“WE destroy Cersei, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said with the smile fixed on her face, “You, and I, and your brother the King, together. We destroy her for good, and then I take the Iron Throne.”

“And what about the North?” Sansa tried her best to keep her voice calm and soft, “It was taken from us and we took it back, and we said we will never bow to anyone else again. What about the North.”

“I have not asked the North to bow,” Daenerys said softly, “Not since I’ve seen. I offered your brother a different solution, Lady Sansa, a solution to keep an independent North.”

“A solution…” Sansa repeated somewhat sternly.

“Yes, a solution,” Daenerys said, “Your brother is your king, king in the North. It is his decision. But I hope he makes the right decision, for it would mean that you and I become friends, I am sure of it.”

Sansa gave her a wide smile as Daenerys stood, and she followed her example. She only sat back after the Queen left the room, head in her hands.

***

“And?” Jon turned from the window, where he stood watching as Arya, Clegane and Beric Dondarrion made their way toward the cellar, followed by Lady Brienne and Grey Worm with a dozen unsullied. He wasn’t happy about it at all. He had to accept though, Arya wasn’t the little girl anymore. Arya was a killer. An assassin. What could an assassin do in a tunnel if it became overrun with wights? Jon tried not to think of that scenario.

“They measured up one another,” Davos said, just as he closed the door behind him.

“And?” Jon watched as Davos’ face turned into that familiar smiling father figure he loved.

“Sansa didn’t tell her she is in love with you, and Daenerys didn’t tell Sansa that she wants to wed you,” Davos stated the facts, “But.”

“Everything before the word but is horseshit, Davos,” Jon said with a sigh.

“Sansa is a smart woman, the smartest I’ve ever met. She came out on top, I am sure of it,” Davos said, hands behind his back, “I am sure of it, because she didn’t give anything to the Queen, and the Queen walked into the trap of what about the North. She told Sansa it is your decision, that she’s offered a solution of independence to you, and the solution would make Sansa her friend she hoped. It sounded as if she was trying to make amends. Perhaps to make it easier for you.”

Jon felt suddenly the need to sit. Sansa knows, he was sure of it, Sansa will indeed figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now chapters come with ship-warnings. Just to make everyone’s life easier.  
> There’s only 48 chapters incl epilogues so it may not serve story-wise to skip them, and ship warnings are an indication. I can’t separate chapters based on ships (again there aren’t enough chapters for that, it’d hold up the story), and usually it’s not possible to keep a chapter for one ship, if it happens that’s mainly how scenes followed each other when I arranged the chapters, not because I planned it so.
> 
> I’m happy with this one, I’m very happy with Jon’s inner monologue, and his evolving thought process, I managed to capture exactly what I wanted at this point... and finally I could rewrite that Sansa-Dany scene I was itching to do. I actually moved it to earlier just to finally do it lol


	27. Winterfell III / IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Jonerys!

Jon walked the battlements, or limped as he sarcastically remarked, on a crutch that has proven to be a hindrance in the mud of earth and snow, and he was eager to discard. He wondered just what a sorry sight he had been, but he didn’t see pity in the eyes of the men he encountered. Many offered blessings, all of them bowed, all of them had the same look in their eyes. The king who fought the dead, the king who rode into his death to save his people and survived. They admired him, Jon knew that. He was acutely aware of what he represented to the men: hope. Something otherworldly in this fucked up war, he knew that they all looked at him as their worthy leader. It didn’t matter anymore whether they were Wolves or Lions, Unsullied or Northmen. Even Dothraki nodded to him with a certain acceptance in their eyes. Of course, in their culture Jon was worthy, he’s won battles. But beyond that, he began to sense something else. He wasn’t just hope, he wasn’t just the king. He was the man who unified them all, that common binding that all of them accepted now to follow him. Perhaps Northmen felt justified by following their chosen king who seemed triumphant. Perhaps Lannisters felt that they finally fought in a war that had real purpose, worthier than power over an iron chair made of swords. Perhaps Dothraki and Unsullied felt accepted in a way, or if not accepted, they felt at the least that they belonged in this strange foreign land fighting alongside him against a common enemy that, should it be victorious over these strange pompous people in the eyes of the Essosi, would surely not stop and cross the narrow Sea. Perhaps all of them realised now the power that unity could provide the living. Jon hoped that to be the case, because if it was, he could justify in himself the lie that he was. They all were following a lie.

Jaime Lannister was worthy of his fame, Jon thought. His preparations were as meticulous as time allowed, and it seemed to Jon that every man knew their position and their task. He felt relieved, that for once it wasn’t him having to assume the role of the planner, he felt grateful for Jaime Lannister and his experience. What an oddity, a Lion preparing to defend the very core of the North where the roots of the Wolves were being threatened. Tywin Lannister would roll in his grave, had he not been blown to ashes by his own daughter.

Jon made his way toward the dragons. It’s been a while since he tried to converse with Rhaegal, and now was as good a time as any. He didn’t care who saw. By now the dragons felt more part of this war than dangerous beasts to fear, even though there was no man woman or child who dared to be near them they were somewhat accepted. The men brought game forth many times, even without instruction, Jon could see that this morning as he watched from the rampart. A few shivering lions dragging a boar, then running for their lives while the dragons roasted the gift and tore it to pieces, not showing the slightest inclination of hurting any of the men. The sight made him laugh aloud.

As he got closer he could feel the familiar tingling at the back of his mind. He could see Rhaegal raising his head from his slumber between his brothers, the others paying him little regard. They didn’t treat him hostile they didn’t question him anymore. Perhaps they all felt that they share blood, Jon wondered. Rhaegal shuffled turning around slowly as Jon approached, lowering his head as if wanting something like a sniff, the way Ghost does whenever Jon returned to him. Jon pulled off his glove and reached out, and the dragon offered its nozzle and a content purr as they touched. Jon couldn’t help but smile.

“They like you,” Dany stepped out from behind Drogon, “They accept you. Especially Rhaegal. He went to save you at the lake.”

“Aye, I saw,” Jon said softly, “I came to thank him for it.”

As if he understood, Rhaegal purred once more before lowering his head to the ground in front of Jon. Jon studied Dany’s gaze at the scene. Did she realise? Did she understand?

“I have an idea,” Dany said then, “One I had for a while actually. It’s probably safer for you as well, considering our plans after the war.” Jon wondered about it, whether he should point out to her his lack of decision in this regard in such close proximity to the dragons, but Dany was already climbing atop Drogon. As she emerged on the dragon’s back, eyebrow raised and a cheeky smirk on her lips, Jon couldn’t help but wonder if this is what she’d be like after the wars are won. If only he said yes...

“Go on,” Dany instructed, and Jon froze mid-thought.

“I don’t know how to ride a dragon,” he protested.

“Nobody does, until they ride a dragon.”

“What if he doesn’t want me to?”

Dany laughed, carefree, “Then I’ve enjoyed your company, Jon Snow!”

She looked way too resolute for Jon to argue, all he could do is nod and wonder how to climb atop a dragon. It wasn’t graceful, not in the least, Jon thought to himself, even though he could sense Rhaegal willing to help, lowering his wing. He finally managed to sit up on the dragons back.

“What do I hold on to?”

“Whatever you can.” Dany looked so amused at his plight, Jon began to feel pity for himself. He quickly grabbed a pike. Then it began.

Rhaegal took off straight away, straight into the sky, to Jon’s complete shock. He wondered every moment if he’ll fall off as he watched Winterfell and the battlements below, nearing closer to them. He could feel it. He felt the tingling in his mind warmer and warmer, giving him an assurance that he was safe. He sat up, taking in sight the view as Rhaegal turned to avoid the wall so close that he could make out Davos’ stunned face and the wide grin on Howland Reed’s next to his Hand, as he flew past.

They passed Winterfell and he could see Drogon taking the lead, Dany looking back at him, still the same cheeky grin on her face. He laughed, aloud, finally. So, this was what it was like, being carefree beside her. This was what it was like being a Targaryen. He felt his blood rush not completely unlike how it did before a fight, yet with peacefulness, excitement. He felt on top of the world as the hills and valleys came closer than disappeared below.

Dany began to dive just as they were passing the Wolfswood, Jon could hear the howl of hundreds of direwolves in greeting as Rhaegal followed suit. He wasn’t afraid, the howl of the wolves while atop a dragon gave him something else. It defined him, that very moment as they began to howl, as Rhaegal flew past, his wings brushing the top of the trees, as if the wolves were greeting them. Jon realised who he was in that very moment. It was profound like nothing before, no fight against the dead, no revelation of his heritage, no election to be king or Lord Commander made him feel so certain of who he was than this very moment atop a dragon, flying against the wind, the sounds of enormous dragonwings flapping in the air mixed with the howl of the direwolves. He was the White Wolf. He was a dragon. He laughed once more, his laughter carried in the wind as a response to the wolves, disappearing in the distance.

Rhaegal dove into the valley beyond the Wolfswood as they reached the Northern Mountains, and Jon knew where he wanted to go. He glanced down once more to find it, before he leaned, and Rhaegal turned on cue, understanding him clearly. They share blood, Jon thought, they are the same. The waterfall came into sight.

It was once a mighty waterfall, the clearing next to it was a place to camp during long trips of hunt, in better times when it was still summer, and the valley was green and full of wildflowers and the sounds of water rushing off the hill filled the air. Now, it was frozen as if frozen in time, covered in white as far as the eye could see, silent where the water formed a thick ice wall along the hillside, with countless icicles shining in the pale sunlight. The waterfall was merely a pale copy of its summer beauty, yet it still roared, powerfully as if wanting to declare it would never be beaten by the powers of winter.

Rhaegal landed and Drogon soon followed suit, and Jon walked to greet Dany once more on the ground, gesturing toward the waterfall.

“You’ve completely ruined horses for me,” he remarked with a wide grin on his face and Dany laughed. He watched her, unable to resist the thought that her laughter was possibly as mesmerising as the dragonride itself. Dangerous thoughts, he reminded himself. Yet he didn’t resist at the thought either, taking in her sight as she turned toward the waterfall, her image once more that of the young woman in the cave on Dragonstone, her eyes full of wonder as she took in the sight.

“We used to come here during summer,” he said, not trying to hide his affection that he knew was clear on his face, “during hunt we always used to camp here. It used to be warmer, though. It was always a place where I felt I belong.”

Dany turned around, her face declaring every emotion at his words and at the sight. “We could stay a thousand years,” she said softly, her voice a declaration of understanding, “No one would find us.”

“We’d be pretty old,” Jon said with a slight smile, as he understood the meaning behind her words. The message that he wasn’t alone longing for something that could never be his, another raw side of her that she’s now allowed him to see.

He walked closer just as she did, their eyes locking onto each other’s, and he could feel being let in behind those big violet eyes as she reached for his hand.

“I told you, it’s cold up here for a southern girl,” He whispered, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You would keep me warm,” she smiled. For a moment, Jon felt the urge just to wrap his arms around her tiny waist and pull her close and kiss her as if there was nothing else in the world but them. He sighed.

“Dany, it’s…” Jon tried to find the words, “It’s not my decision, it’s not what you think. You ought to know that…”

“I know that you’re a king,” she said, her cheeky smile there once more but Jon could see she forced it. “What use there is of being king if you cannot make your own decisions?”

He had to smile at that, more in his resignation to the situation. “You don’t know the whole story, Dany, you don’t see clearly that…”

“I see clearly enough,” she said, interrupting him once more. “I see you would, I see you wanted to kiss me, Jon. And I wanted you to kiss me.” She turned away from him, and Jon felt as if an iron fist squeezed his heart. His moment was passing by, he knew.

“Tell me, Jon Snow,” she said, staring at the waterfall, “when you are around me, when there is no one else there but you and me, do you feel as if you were drawn into that moment? As if fate itself brought you there and you had to touch to believe it real, and your mind begins to wonder why…” her voice trailed off, without finishing her sentence as she stood motionless.

Jon was stunned. She’s put it so eloquently, his struggle whenever she was around and the notions he used to sweep aside without considering them. She felt it too, now he knew.

“I do,” he whispered, and she turned toward him immediately.

“Then nothing else matters.”

“That’s not true,” Jon stated, trying to find the right words to convince her to hear him out. “Everything else matters, the war matters, the people matter, who I am matters in that…”

And she kissed him. She silenced him by kissing him, and Jon’s mind cursed silently as his hands wrapped around her waist to pull her close, and for a moment, truly nothing else mattered but giving in to his blood and this strange pull of him to her, as if she was a magnet, his opposite and yet his other half. Dangerous thoughts, his mind dragged him back as he tried to separate himself from her, taking her arms from around his neck as their lips parted.

“I am trying to tell you, Dany please…” he whispered, not knowing the words anymore that would not forever break the bond that kiss forged between them.

He watched as she took a deep breath, her disappointment clear on his face, her eyes once more that of the queen. “All right then,” she whispered, “let it be your way. You say it’s not your decision, let it be your way, Jon.”

She left him there walking back to Drogon and he followed, watching as she effortlessly climbed atop the black dragon. He screwed this, he knew, this was his last chance to tell her before… He shook his head. If only she’d listen to her, just once. If only she wasn’t a queen used to not having to listen. If only she wasn’t so eager to reason with him.

He climbed atop Rhaegal, but Drogon was already up in the sky, on his way back to Winterfell. The ride back wasn’t near as rewarding, Jon’s mind occupied by what was to come, for he knew what he must do. And he knew that whatever bond that one kiss had forged, would likely be broken soon enough. Nothing lasts, he told himself bitterly, not even such dreams do, they’re nothing but broken dreams in the end.

***

“You know why he had to,” Arya said, staring out the window of the broken tower. Sansa sat on the chest where she always sat after training. “Move out of your chamber, I mean.”

“Of course I do,” Sansa said bitterly before her face softened. “I’m not stupid. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

Arya sat back beside her sister. “I don’t trust her.”

Sansa allowed herself a slight smile. Of course, neither of them trusted the Dragon Queen. No one in the North, no one in Winterfell would trust her, besides her own people. And Jorah Mormont, if he could even be considered a northerner still. But Jorah Mormont dotted on the Queen, his opinion was just as flawed as his status.

“Jon likes her,” Sansa whispered then, and Arya placed a hand on hers.

“Do you think,” she began, “do you think he could… love her?”

Sansa tensed at the thought. Arya’s question wasn’t anything more, but words spoken aloud that lingered on her mind ever since the war council and perhaps even before it.

“When we were travelling the North, we used to share a tent, have I told you that? She asked looking at Arya then.

“Don’t tell me… did he fuck you or what?” Arya’s eyes were full of surprise, confusion, even perhaps anger.

“Arya!” Sansa shouted in her shock. “This is Jon, Arya. You know him.”

Arya chuckled, “So the problem is that he didn’t fuck you yet.”

Sansa stood in anger. “You’re not helping.”

“I am trying?” Arya was annoyed, so very annoyed. What was the point of loving someone if all it meant is sitting in hiding chanting tiny details and troubles of it, with no end. “Fine, what was it with the tent.”

“He used to hold me, that is all,” Sansa said before she sighed, her following words merely a whisper. “It made me feel that it’ll always be like that. That he was my Jon.”

She turned then, her hand motioning in the air as if to give way to her frustration. “Now there’s all this, war with the dead, independence of the north, and some kind of solution to keep it from the Dragon Queen.” She turned back to Arya. “He’s distant. He no longer shares what he thinks, and he is distant.”

“He has a lot on his mind, being king and all,” Arya remarked, “Forgive me but you giving him a favour wasn’t exactly well timed. What were you expecting, that he tells the dead to wait because he has to sort you out?”

“I don’t need sorting out.”

“Yes, you do,” Arya was adamant, “Look at you. We’re sitting here for hours on end, and you keep lamenting about something you don’t even know. You can’t know what’s on his mind until he tells you. Even if the Queen offered marriage as you say, Jon wouldn’t just hand the North over as a wedding present.”

Suddenly Sansa burst out in laughter.

“What?!”

“Jon said the exact same thing once,” Sansa uttered the words amidst her laughter, “Do I think he would refuse to kneel and hand the North over as a wedding present.”

***

The library was still. Not a soul would care of such things as books in time of war, Jon thought somewhat bitterly. He enjoyed this library. In his boyhood, he’s spent many hours sitting here, immersed in books about tales of old, about heroes when there were still heroes in the world with deeds done so great that they could lend themselves to name the Age of Heroes.

“Sam,” he called out, and a shuffling sound responded, long before the grinning head of Samwell Tarly emerged from behind shelves full of books and old manuscripts.

“What are you up to here, Sam,” Jon said kindly, “burning the candle stock all night.”

“Reading up about the Long Night,” San said proudly, “perhaps one of these has the answer how to defeat them. Winterfell has many books, but if one has the answer I mean to find it.”

“That is amicable,” Jon laughed softly, “But you do need some sleep as well.”

“I’ve seen Gilly in the yard, I presume what little time you set aside for sleep is not spent with sleeping,” Jon grinned, “Congratulations, my friend.”

Sam’s face showed nothing but pure delight of happiness. “Well the nights have been getting longer and there wasn’t that much to do in Old Town… there’s only so many books a person can read,” Sam muttered behind his grin.

“I know how it happened, Sam,” Jon said softly.

“If it’s a boy, we want to name him Jon,” Sam’s eyes were seeking his approval, and Jon felt the warmth of love fill his heart, the humility of being able to call this man a friend.

“I hope it’s a girl, Sam.” They laughed aloud, their carefree laughter breaking the silence of the library.

“You would wed soon I presume,” Sam said then, “that’s what kings do in peace and there’ll be peace soon, I know it.”

Jon sighed, “Your optimism never fails, Sam,” he whispered as he sat down beside his friend, “As things stand, I doubt I will ever hold a babe I sired in my arms.”

He could feel Sam’s eyes studying him as he gazed down the floor, his boots, and he felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“You never know,” Sam said, “I thought I never have that in me. And you are pretty.”

Jon grinned once more as he looked up. “Aye, what does that matter if the woman cannot…”

“Who cannot?”

“The Queen,” Jon whispered, watching Sam tense.

“You love her,” Sam said, “She burned my father and brother alive and you love her.”

“I don’t love her,” Jon said lowly, “But she learned from that, Sam. I am sorry I truly am for that, I wish I could take it back… I wish I could take back a lot of things. But as it stands, I have just as little chance to take it back as I have in what comes after.”

“If you don’t love her…”

“It’s not that simple,” Jon interrupted. “She isn’t all bad you know. She’s… she’s good, she can be good. Really good.”

Sam looked confused. “You ought to find someone you love.”

“That is not what kings and princes do,” Jon remarked lowly, “I am learning that lesson. She asked me to wed her.”

At that, Sam gasped. Jon watched as his friend came to terms with what he’s heard, slowly, giving both of them a moment or two to process his words.

“What good does it make?” Same asked finally.

“For one, independence of the North,” Jon reasoned, “and for two, no dragons to burn it.” He took a deep breath, before he added, only as a whisper, “I think I want it, Sam.”

Sam’s face wasn’t judging, it wasn’t questioning, as he waited for an explanation.

“This, here…” Jon began, “this is where I grew up. Where I was shunned and lied to and pushed aside more times than I could remember. I know it was for my protection, I don’t hold it against them, but this is not my home. This is Sansa’s home, and Arya’s and Bran’s… I have no right to be king in the North, I have no right to all this. And she’s my father’s sister, perhaps, just perhaps it would be right. Because what I have, this playing at being king doesn’t feel right. It never did.”

Sam nodded for Jon to continue.

“I rode a dragon today,” Jon remarked with a sparkle of awe in his eye, “Not like that, I mean, I flew atop a real dragon high up in the sky. It was so profound, it was as if I was home, wherever home is. The wolves howled in the Wolfswood as I flew past and it was as if they were telling me where I belong. Who I am.”

“You rode a dragon,” Sam’s face mirrored the awe in Jon’s eyes, “Well, you are the blood of the dragon. You can tame them. I’ve read books about it, Targaryens controlling dragons with old magic from Old Valyria tying them to the blood…” Jon nodded, yet his wonder at the experience faded already.

“This is not all,” Jon whispered, and Sam chuckled at him.

“It is always complicated with you, Jon.”

“Aye, it is,” Jon smiled a defeated smile, “Sansa loves me,” he pulled back his sleeve, showing Sam the favour he still wore neatly tied around his wrist. “If I leave it will break her heart. She will never forgive it and she doesn’t deserve it.”

Sam raised an eyebrow glancing down at Jon’s wrist. “What a conundrum.”

“Aye, what a conundrum.”

“I am not good at this,” Sam said kindly, “advising kings about marriages, perhaps Ser Davos could help solve this. Or Lord Reed, he seems to be of sound advice to you…”

“It is not advice I need,” Jon whispered. “It is a friend I need. For what I want to do, I don’t think I’ll have many friends here after that, Sam.”

“But you have me,” Sam declared resolutely, “I will always be your friend. Even when you’ll be called Targaryen. I will be your friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted this out to have a Jon chapter when he finally begins to discern a lot (yea it’s Jonerys but it’s Dany’s proposal that unleashes the discerning)
> 
> I may post with a longer gap because the next chapters I need to write together. So just wanted to say that I’m working on the next ones they just take a bit more time :)


	28. Winterfell III / V.

“I said I’ll be on my feet in no time,” Edric stated sternly, “I can’t wait out this war in the king’s bed, those fuckers are wrong if they think they got me.” His lips turned into a grin, “Though I must say, the king’s chambers are easy to get used to. Perhaps I should become a king one day.”

Jon’s eyes shot an icy look at him. He couldn’t have known the weight of his words, Jon thought, and still, they cut deep.

“It was but a banter,” Edric added seeing the look on Jon’s face.

“Be careful what you wish for, my friend,” Jon retorted, but his face softened somewhat.

“I vowed to serve you, Jon Snow,” Edric said as a matter of fact, as if it was a declaration of nothing more but his name, “The greatest king that ever was, I still believe that. Who else would charge into tens of thousands of dead men with but two thousand?”

Jon laughed. “And I still believe you are my friend, Edric,” he said kindly as he sat down on the edge of his own bed.

“Aye, that I am,” Edric confirmed, “And proud to be so. You saved my sorry ass on the lake.”

“I mean to ask you something,” Jon looked away from his friend, around in the room, trying to find the right words. Edric sat still, awaiting the question that lingered as if a set of slow storm clouds, dark and grey above the fields, yet undecided whether to release their load of heavy rain or find a better target.

“I mean to ask you to trust me,” Jon said lowly.

“Why, I do trust you,” Edric said, confusion in his eyes, “Have I given reason for you to doubt me? You’ve welcomed me and my people to our homeland, you’ve proven yourself a just and honourable leader. Why would I not trust you and follow you? As I said, the greatest king…”

“…that ever was, I heard you,” Jon finished the sentence. “I ask you to trust me even if what I do seems wrong to you. I ask you to put your trust in the Stark name and to trust me.”

“That is one and the same,” Edric reasoned, “You may be a fucking bastard but so are we all, and you have the blood of the first men running in your veins, the blood of the kings of Winter. You are a Stark in all but name, and names matter precious little in who a man becomes.”

“It is not same,” Jon whispered as his eyes met Edric’s, “but you must promise me, Edric.”

“To trust you?” Edric sniffed, “If that is why you brood here, I promise. You have my word.”

“Thank you,” Jon sighed, knowing well that all these words meant little. He didn’t really know why he asked, what he expected. Edric was loyal, Edric looked at him as his king and leader – like countless others. But Edric, knowing or not, could make the difference to their independence they fought so hard for. Jon wanted to know if he was willing to compromise for that independence, and yet he couldn’t ask. For now, this much had to suffice.

“I’ve got to call the wolves back from the woods,” Jon said then, changing the conversation to the excuse he came with.

“Aye, you said so when you came here,” Edric grinned, “and I told you to blow the horn twice.”

“Will they follow Ghost?”

“That I can’t tell,” Edric shook his head slightly as he spoke, “They were trained to protect us, they would attack and fight to protect their own. We’re one pack.”

“Aye, you are,” Jon smiled, “But I mean to protect them, I don’t want them to fight just yet. This is a siege, there’s enough problems with too many men crammed into Winterfell, we don’t need hundreds of direwolves to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“What do you want then?”

“Send them south, to the Neck,” Jon pondered aloud, “they’ll be safely away and if we ever take this war to the Neck, I fear I’ll have need for the force they represent and desperate enough to use it.”

“Like a reserve.”

“Aye, like a reserve.”

***

They all stood around the small table and the map, watching as Jaime Lannister carefully placed all their figurines, representing their banners. Only Arya and Jon, and Jon’s Hand Ser Davos were missing from the assembly. Their faces haven’t changed much either, the same hostile looks, the same carefully masked stares toward each other ruled the room.

Finally, Arya arrived and behind her, Jon and Ser Davos.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” Jon said as soon as he glanced at the map.

“Let’s get started,” Jon leaned on the edge of the table, resting his weight against his arm for earlier today, he abandoned the crutch. It kept hindering his movement in the snow and mud. He looked at Arya and nodded.

“We’ve seen to that tunnel last night,” Arya said proudly, her eyes shining, “It’s unbelievable. It’s lined with bricks all along and firepits as well. Two men on horseback can easily reach the end without having to do as much as bow their heads. It comes out here,” she pointed at the map, just where the river was closest to the Kingsroad. “The exit is into a natural cave by the river. A bit of a climb, but not a problem for horses either.” She stood straight, knowing full well that she did a good job.

Jon looked around the assembly.

“I am going to change our plan,” Jon said sternly, looking around. “Winterfell can only house so many men. It doesn’t need forty thousand to defend it, not when a route to escape is so clear. The end of the tunnel also must be secured. Therefore, the Knights of the Vale and the Dothraki will take to the tunnel straight after retreating.”

“You are abandoning Winterfell,” Lord Glover declared, “You are abandoning your father’s home. Ned Stark would be ashamed if he heard this, if I may say.”

“You may not, Lord Glover,” Sansa retorted, with such hatred in her voice that even Jon turned toward her surprised. “Winterfell is our home. Jon has fought the dead, multiple times and survived because he understands the value in retreating and saving one’s strength to fight another day. If the cost is abandoning Winterfell, that is our call, and as Lady of Winterfell I stand by the king’s decision.”

“My Lady, I was only saying,” Glover began but Sansa raised her hand.

“You were not saying anything, my Lord,” Sansa hissed. “You were insulting your liege, the king. I will have none of that, not in MY home.”

“Sansa,” Jon whispered as their eyes met for a moment, slightly shaking his head before he turned to Glover. “I trust this is the last time I hear of how disappointing I am proving to be of Lord Eddard Stark’s memory.” The silence was sharp and cold. “I am planning an evacuation, as Lady Brienne predicted. I always plan for an evacuation, because I personally do not want to become one of those blue-eyed corpses. I don’t want that fate for a single man who defends Winterfell, just as I didn’t want it for any of the men who we lost in this war already. This has to be a war of attrition, we reduce the enemy’s numbers and save ours as best as we can, Lord Glover, because that is our only chance to win. While it may not be as honourable and may not be the northern way, it brought us results thus far.”

“We don’t have room on the ramparts and battlements for the retreating men. We don’t have room even now for all our horses, and I also mean to keep them on our side, we don’t have enough as it is. They’ll be crammed into the keep and the crypts, hard to mobilise for a sudden retreat and easy target for the enemy. Therefore, we will begin evacuation when the first line of defence falls. If we defeat them, all the better, our men can safely return.”

“The men will also transport our provisions, that is their task. All those who cannot fight will leave the Great Hall and join them. That includes Bran,” Jon finished, looking around.

“Where is Bran?” He only just realised the boy wasn’t sitting by the fire.

“In the godswood, as always” Sansa explained, “He asked for you there when refused to join this council.”

Jon stood straight, taking in their sight once more before he turned to Jaime.

“I trust my commands are clear,” he said, ignoring the huff from Lord Glover. The northern lords took it hard that he trusted the Lannister, and made their disapproval more obvious by the day, why pay attention now. Jaime ignored it as well as he responded, albeit his face gave away a sense of pride at the trust he was given.

“It is all clear, your grace,” he stated, “We’ll prepare accordingly.”

“Good,” Jon allowed a slight smile, “For there’ll be no war council tomorrow. Assemble the lords present in the great hall instead. You too, Ser Jaime, and the queen.” He turned and left them without goodbye. Being king had its perks, not caring for courtesies when he didn’t have the mood was one of them, he remarked to himself. He was eager to see Bran.

***

“Come here, Boy!” Jon’s smile was wide and honest as he noticed the wolf at the iron gate leading to the godswood. Ghost seemed to mirror his happiness, if the wagging tail could be any indication. Jon crouched to pet the wolf, scratch behind its ears as he sunk his face into the soft white fur, before the wolf greeted him with a lick on his cheek. He laughed aloud.

“I have a task for you, boy,” Jon said, “One that takes you far from here and makes you a pack leader, if you can do it.”

As if he understood what that meant, the wolf sat, ears high waiting for instruction.

“I need you to find the direwolves in the woods,” Jon said, wondering just how idiotic he may have sounded. “I need you to lead them south, to Lord Reed’s keep.”

He suddenly felt the need to hold the wolf. There was a time when he was small, and he fitted into one arm, big red eyes always watching, always wondering. He wasn’t so small anymore, but in times like these Jon wished to once more see those times, when their biggest worry between them was where Jon hid the marrowbone from the pup. He sighed as he stood.

“Go on, now,” He said softly, “I shall see you soon enough.”

Just how smart direwolves are, Jon wondered as he watched Ghost turn and run away. Perhaps as smart as dragons. Perhaps even smarter, he chuckled. Would a dragon obey such a command? For some reason, Jon had no doubt that Ghost would obey his command. He’d do all he could to carry it out.

The thought gave him some reassurance, and warmth, and he wondered if he grew cold. If this kingship and all the worries that came with it has already turned him into a bitter man.

He entered the godswood and walked straight to Bran by the weirwood tree. The boy didn’t turn toward him, yet he spoke even before Jon took the last steps to reach him.

“You should be more careful,” Bran said, “Careful not to give away what is not yours to give.”

Jon took a deep breath, “The North,” he whispered.

“Yes, it is not yours to give.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jon hissed, “Its yours. You should be King in the North.”

“I could never be king of anything,” Bran remarked plainly, “I am the three eyed raven now.”

“And if it was offered to you?” Jon asked then, genuinely curious, “If the lords declared you shouting your name waiving their swords in the air, Bran?”

“I refuse,” Bran looked at Jon, “I will refuse.”

“You will,” Jon dumped himself on the trunk where he, and Ned Stark before him, used to clean his sword. “As if you knew what is going to happen.”

“I know,” Bran declared.

“So you see the future now?” Jon heard sarcasm in his voice, but he could no longer care. Conversations with Bran usually ended this way.

“No, I don’t,” Bran allowed himself a forgiving smile, “But I see you. And I know what you’ve been offered, and that it drives you to make the wrong decision. You want to be free.”

“How could you know that it is the wrong decision, Bran?”

“What is independence,” Bran began, “If it’s given with a tie?”

Jon wondered at that for a moment, but not getting anywhere with it, he gave up. Bran always talked in riddles, half of it no one could understand.

“You weren’t at the war council,” he changed the topic, “Sansa said you asked I come here. So here I am.”

“I cannot see clearly,” for once Bran’s eyes were full of sorrow as he looked at Jon, “I wish I could’ve stayed in that cave with Bloodraven. But I went, and I saw the Night King, and he touched me. He’s put his mark on me, and I broke the magic of the cave. They could enter. We had to flee. Hodor died and Summer died, because I went to see the Night King. Because I couldn’t wait and learn, I couldn’t be more patient.” His voice sounded somewhat broken, almost alive. Almost. Jon was taken aback at his sudden confession. He never talked about his journey north of the wall.

“It was my role to guide you. I was called there to learn, for he could not come to you. He was one with the tree. But I couldn’t learn it all, Jon, I ran out of time. I cannot see all that I need to see. I try, but I cannot reach it.”

“I am sorry, Bran,” Jon said softly as he placed his hand on Brans in his lap, “You learned enough, you’ve been of great help to us thus far. You’ve helped Sansa get rid of Littlefinger…”

“We have no time for this,” Bran answered coldly, as if his moment of humanity has passed as suddenly as it came. “He is coming. He is on the move once more.”

Jon drew back his hand and stiffened. “How long?”

“Soon,” Bran turned toward the lake, steaming in the cold, “He is in no hurry, but he is coming. He knows you are with me. He always knows when you are near.”

“There must be some kind of connection between you,” Jon remarked, “Else how could he know such things?” Bran pulled up his sleeve to show him the blueish black mark of a hand on his arm.

“This is the connection,” He said as he reached for Jon’s hand who sat next to him, “Do you understand now? I will only lead him to you. To all of you. As long as I am with you, he knows your every move as you make them. You have to leave me.” Jon startled. Bran couldn’t insist…

“You will leave, and you will burn the godswood when you do, and me with it,” Bran’s confirmation rang hollow as Jon tried to believe what he’s heard. “But I had to tell you, Lord Reed is wrong. I do not believe that you need a flaming sword, Jon.”

Jon looked up, straight into his eyes.

“I believe you are the sword,” Bran continued, “I believe it is one and the same, the prince that was promised is the sword that brings the light. The sword in the darkness that guards the realms of men. I believe it is all connected, but I cannot see how. I cannot be certain.”

Jon shook his head, “And I cannot say that your riddles improved, Bran,” he whispered, “You refer to the Nights Watch vows, they are true to every man who spoke those words. I am the sword in the darkness, I am the shield that guards the realms of men. These words are as true to Sam as they are to me.”

“No, they are not,” Bran countered, “There is only one son of ice and fire. One prince promised.”

“Explain to me then,” Jon asked desperately.

“Rhaegar Targaryen chose a wife who was ice. He was fire,” Bran said, “and you were reborn in the fire.”

“I don’t recall fire,” Jon countered, “It was quite cold, really.”

“The fire of the Lord of Light, who’s enemy is him. He is the last of his kind. The only one of his kind who survived, he spent thousands of years waiting, knowing you will come. I don’t know how but he knew when you arrived.”

“So, if my father wasn’t obsessed with prophecies, we wouldn’t have this war,” Jon’s usual sarcasm rang true in his words. He was the cause of this. Yes, he could believe that.

“We wouldn’t have you either,” Bran declared, shutting Jon an icy look. “We needed you to come, the living needed you to come. Before he grows too strong, he needed to be drawn out from under the snow and ice and drawn forth. He must be defeated and only you can defeat him. You are the Lightbringer, that is what I believe.”

“As if I needed more weight on my shoulders,” Jon muttered, “And how do I defeat him?”

“He knew he was forgotten,” Bran began to explain, “He knows the memory of men is fickle. Men forget, history fades into fairy tales and folklore. Men stop believing and cut down the sacred trees. He didn’t know that you will believe, not until he saw you.”

“Hardhome,” Jon whispered.

“Yes, and he sent one of his children to end you. But he failed. He knew then that he had to act, there was no more time to waste. And yet, you surprised him still. He is surprised, Jon, he is angered. He wants you.”

“And what would he do with me?” Jon’s face was that of a ghost, “if he had me, what would he do?”

“Kill you,” Bran declared, “Kill you, for you are the only hope of the living, the only one who can defeat the darkness. Kill you and darkness will rule this world. Men will die, until only he and his children will remain.”

“Why,” Jon felt tears brimming in his eyes, “Why Bran?”

“Because that is the purpose for which he was created,” Bran said, “To kill the First Men. But he doesn’t see difference. For him, it means, kill life itself. To rule over the darkness, he must kill life itself.”

“Why me?” Jon asked, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Why aren’t you ordinary,” Bran answered, “Why aren’t you the bastard you were. Why aren’t you a trueborn Stark. Why aren’t you anyone else… Because there had to be one strong enough. You are strong enough. You know sacrifice, and you make it.”

Jon stood, slowly, painfully. “How do I kill him?” His voice was thin, but resolute.

“I can only assume for that I don’t see. That I didn’t learn, Jon,” Bran said as if it was meaningless, “That is where I failed you when I went to see him. Now he knows what I know, and he knows what to hide from me. His storms are hiding it from me.” Jon sighed, looking around the trees surrounding them. It was so peaceful, this place. He used to come here as a boy, beg the Gods. How cruel a way they chose to give him what he begged for.

“Lord Reed is wrong, Jon,” Bran declared, “It won’t take eighty days. Almost, but it cannot. In eighty days you lose. You have eighty days to win. To kill him. But you cannot kill him while his army stands between you and him. You must fight the way you do, as you always knew. You cannot fight him until he wants to fight you. He will not fight you as long as there is another way. Destroy his army, destroy his might. Only then will he fight you for he knows you can be killed. You have to stay alive.”

They both remained silent for long, before Jon spoke again. “I cannot leave you behind, Bran.”

“You must,” Bran’s voice was soft once more, fake as it sounded, designed to soothe Jon’s worries. “What is one life compared to life itself, Jon. It is nothing. You must sacrifice. You know you do.”

“No,” Jon said sternly, fire burning in his eyes. Dragonfire, “I must do nothing. I am still the king. And you obey like everyone else.” He turned and left the godswood.

***

“You cannot leave him!” Arya stood in front of Jon.

“For one I am glad there isn’t as much truth to horror stories as we thought,” Davos said, his voice kind as he glanced at Jon, then Reed.

“I should’ve understood that,” Reed’s voice was full of sorrow, “I should’ve figured it out, I am sorry, I truly am…”

“Do not worry, Howland,” Jon smiled, “After all you cannot see the past. Bran can.”

“What will you do?” Sansa’s earlier anger diminished, as she stood by the fire looking at Jon, her eyes were full of worry. Like everyone else’s, Jon thought.

“I don’t know,” Jon stood, “I honestly have no clue. You are my advisors, advise me when you figured it out. There is something else.”

They all turned toward him with sulken faces. What else could there be after he’s just told them of Bran’s death wish?

“And you better not make a scene about it,” Jon looked around their faces, his gaze lingering on Sansa just a flicker of a moment longer than the rest, “I am in no mood of it, not today.”

There was no response, just silent acceptance and waiting for the news that surely must be graver than a loved one wishing to be left behind to die, to be burned alive with the old Gods themselves.

“Daenerys Targaryen proposed her hand in marriage to me,” Jon stated the fact, “After the war is won against the dead. In return she promises independence to the North, in an alliance with the Southern six kingdoms. A coalition as she calls it.”

Jon glanced at Sansa, but her face showed no emotion. She knew already.

“Bran said something that troubles me,” Jon added, his voice lower, “He said, what is independence if it comes with a tie.”

Sansa chuckled. “You didn’t believe she offered independence, did you Jon?”

Jon opened his mouth to speak, his eyes once more showing the early signs of rage, but Davos interrupted.

“There is no need to bicker about it,” the old night said, “it is the same game, Jon, the Lady Sansa is correct, albeit she could’ve said it differently. I know you, your grace, I know you would want to believe it. There’s no guarantee.”

“Guarantee for what?!” Jon hissed.

“She has three dragons,” Arya shrugged, “What if she doesn’t like your brooding anymore and decides to use them?” Jon’s eyes grew wide.

“It is true,” Davos’ voice was comforting despite their meaning, “she may mean it, and she may not. She may grow to love you, and she may not. And if she didn’t, you’ll be nothing more but a burden, the man who holds her to her words and prevents her claim the North.”

“What did you tell her,” Sansa asked lowly. Jon looked up to see fear in her eyes.

“I told her nothing,” he declared, “but she wants an answer. You all say what if she is lying, what if it’s a trick. But what if it’s not? I have no claim to the North, but if I did this, the North could be free, and under Stark rule once more. Give her a chance, would you? She saved my life, multiple times. She deserves some of your gratitude if you love me so much as you say you do, or does she not?”

They all stood silent. None of them trusts her, Jon realised then. None of them saw her the way he did, none of them saw the woman with awe in her eyes, smile as sweet as a sunny day in spring. None of them knew what she really was. He could never convince them, he knew then.

“One chance,” he said softly, “I ask you to give her one chance.”

“For what,” Arya hissed, “Let you marry her, then just turn back the time if we are right?”

Jon shrugged, “No, of course not, but let me speak to her.”

“As if you were a sound judge of her character,” Sansa added in that icy tone of hers that she never used with Jon. “It is clear, Jon, so very clear what you want.”

“You cannot know what I want, Sansa,” Jon hissed, “For I don’t know either and even if I did, I am certain you could never decipher what I want, not in a thousand years.”

That was too much, Jon knew. It shut her up, her face as if it turned to stone. He regretted the words, but they were already spoken.

“Could you just trust me?” He asked, looking around them, “You trust me to be your leader, yet you cannot muster the trust that I am capable to speak to a woman.”

They didn’t respond at first, until Arya whispered, “We do trust you, Jon.”

“Good,” with that he turned and left the room.

***

Jon sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the fire, his hand massaging his forehead, in the vain hope to sooth his throbbing headache. Nothing was going as it should, nothing was as simple it seemed. Three eyed ravens and flaming swords, it made no sense to him. The prince that was promised, the sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men. The one who knows sacrifice. He tried to understand it all, he really did. The worst of all, Bran’s reasoning was sound. What’s one life for that of mankind itself? And if they took Bran with them in the tunnel, would it mean that they couldn’t escape?

If he sent fifty men with Bran to Widows Watch tomorrow, would there still be time? No, Widows Watch was always the quicker to evacuate, they must have completed that operation by now. Send to White Harbor, he thought then. Yes, send Bran to White Harbor while the dead were still days away. ‘Soon, he’s in no hurry just yet.’ But if he knew where Bran was, would he not follow him? Would the Night King not believe that wherever Bran was, there he was too?

And if Bran didn’t know how to kill him, what made him assume that Jon was Lightbringer himself, a sword – that seemed utterly idiotic to him. But if Bran said so, would the Night King not believe the same?

Jon knew one thing – Bran’s death was no solution to this at all. Yes, he would send Bran away, separately. But if he sent him to White Harbor, he endangers the refugees there who are likely still embarking and evacuating. Bran’s death would sever the connection between the Night King and him, that much is of no doubt, for as long as Bran had a heart beating and a mind…

The idea came to mind suddenly. It wasn’t the best, but it was the best he could come up with and it wasn’t like any of his so-called advisors offered an alternative. He was running out of time. He had to do something about it.

Jon stood and rushed to the door as fast as he could, ready to give his order as soon as it opened.

“Fetch the maester,” Jon instructed the guards, “Tell him I need a scroll and ink along with him, as fast as he can.”


	29. Winterfell III / VI.

The castle was silent, everyone was fast asleep. Even the ghosts must have been, Jon thought, as he walked the corridors. The guards nodded as he passed, likely grateful that they have not yet fallen asleep themselves. It was quiet, peaceful, tranquil. Almost as if it was peacetime, and Jon remarked to himself that this is what it probably would be, was it peacetime now.

He didn’t know what he will say. It could’ve waited, but he was restless. He understood well enough what his late-night visit would imply, but he wanted this past him. He didn’t want to ponder on it, he didn’t want to wonder anxiously whether he was right. He must’ve thought about turning around a dozen times by now, scolding himself for the foolish idea. Yet there was something about the night, the castle at peace with itself and the world. It was honest, where the day would fill it with buzz and chatter and with it, scheme and complexity, the night was simple, slow and soothing. He needed that now.

The two unsullied stepped aside from the door without a pause, as if they were waiting for him. She was waiting for him, Jon thought. He knocked on the door.

She opened it, for a moment their eyes met. Jon saw a kind of understanding in hers as she opened the door wider. Jon stepped in, holding her gaze, wondering about what he saw in those wide violet eyes. He closed the door behind him.

They stood for a moment, just looking at each other, before she stepped close.

“You made your decision, Jon,” she whispered, as her hands took his.

“I came to talk,” Jon said, his voice sounding raspier than he hoped it to be, “Only to talk.”

She chuckled, “You are honourable as always, aren’t you Jon Snow?”

“Not half as much as you think me to be,” Jon said softly, “else I would not come to your chamber so late at night.”

She smiled at that, releasing his hands. “What should we talk about, then?” she asked nonchalantly as she walked to the table, pouring wine into two cups.

“Anything,” Jon shrugged, “You ask me to wed you, we ought to at least know one another, a bit at the least.”

Daenerys gestured him to sit by the fire and he did, swiftly, acutely feeling his heart pounding in his throat. She offered him a cup, and he took a sip, the wine soothing his awfully throbbing headache.

“What would you like to know?” She asked, genuinely, as she sat down in the other chair. “Shall we converse about jousts and feasts and fashion? Isn’t that what lords and ladies converse about?”

“We aren’t just lords and ladies,” Jon sighed, “We ought to talk about different things.” He watched as Dany’s eyes settled on him, meeting his. “Why do you want the Iron Throne so much? You are Queen in Meereen, you freed the slave cities.”

“Because it is mine, my birthright and my inheritance,” she said softly, “I am the last Targaryen. Had my brothers lived, I would have no claim. I imagine I would be wed to Viserys that fool and live a peaceful life as much as he allowed it, at least until the dead arrive. But my brothers are dead, my niece and nephew are dead. I am the only Targaryen left, therefore it is rightfully mine.”

“So, you want to build a new world, but you rely on the customs of the old,” Jon said softly. His mind was racing, trying to focus, “And you aim for something that, had events turned out differently you would have no right to.”

“Had events turned out differently, my brother Rhaegar would be king I presume,” Dany said, “I am no fool, Jon. I know what my father was, I told you I know. He would not have lasted on the throne. Had Rhaegar lived, he’d be king and his son after him. Everything would be different, I would be different.”

“Aye, we are both shaped by how we were raised,” Jon remarked. This much was true, he thought. Had she not been forced to exile, perhaps she would be different, raised at court to obey a husband one day, to be a proper lady and princess. And he would’ve been raised at court. She would be marrying her brother, he said. Or perhaps not.

“Why do Targaryens marry among themselves,” Jon wondered aloud, and Dany laughed.

“Viserys said it’s in the blood,” she explained, “When we were children, he used to tell me that he will marry me. To keep pure the blood of the dragon. Then he sold me for an army.”

Jon looked at her then. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

“No”, Dany whispered, staring into the fire, “But then, nothing is. Growing up as a bastard with trueborn brothers and sisters couldn’t have been easy either. We make the most with what we are given. We both did. I am here, I raised three dragons, something Viserys wouldn’t have dared to even dream of. And you are here, proclaimed King in the North.”

Jon nodded, processing her words. True they’ve come far from where they started, he certainly did, and as far as he could tell so did she. Perhaps even further. Her journey seemed much longer.

“Your offer,” Jon said lowly, “How would that work, Dany?”

“Exactly as I told you,” Dany smiled. “The North would no longer be part of the Seven Kingdoms, just as Ser Davos declared on the summit. Yet it would be part of something bigger. It would be part of our new world, I imagine, North and South working together, being two halves of a greater whole. Like a marriage. That is what gave me the idea. You marry someone, yet you don’t become them. You remain yourself, your dreams and your fears, they don’t change.”

“But if the North is one half of a whole, then it’s not independent, Dany, not truly,” Jon remarked.

“Why not?” Dany looked at him surprised, “It would be a separate kingdom.”

“Aye, and it was a separate kingdom as part of the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon tried to find the words to explain, turning toward her, “It had no king, that’s true. But that’s just a title. The North is different from the South. We descend from the First Men, in blood we are closer to the Freefolk than those in the South. When the Andals conquered Westeros, they didn’t take the North. Our customs and our way of life, and our ideals, they are different.”

“I don’t understand,” Dany sat back in her chair, “Truly, that difference is what the North would retain, as it did in the past three hundred years.”

Jon smiled a forgiving smile. He wasn’t good at words, that much became clear, or perhaps she really could not grasp the idea, so foreign to her way of thinking. “Let’s say, one of your Southern Kingdoms rebels, Dorne rebels against you for some petty reason like, your heir didn’t wed their princess or something. I could imagine that from what I heard of them. What will you do?”

“Call to arms the kingdom we rule,” Dany answered without missing a beat.

“THE kingdom WE rule,” Jon repeated. “One kingdom, that you and I rule together. You see, you made a decision there to call upon the North to aid you in a Southern war.”

“I don’t see the point,” Dany smiled, “Surely, I could expect my husband and consort to come to my aid.”

“Aye, you could expect, and your husband would have the duty of doing so,” Jon countered, “But that brings the North into a Southern war. Your consort is King in the North, and as such, the values and preferences of the North should come first.”

“So if the North is attacked, you would not seek my aid,” Dany tried to process what she’s heard, “and if the South is attacked, you would not come to mine.”

“Not necessarily,” Jon tried to explain, “But when the North is attacked, your obligation as Queen of the South is to guarantee the safety of the South. Defend your borders to ensure your people’s survival. If you are Queen of the South, your duty is with the South. Not with your husband.”

Dany shook her head, “That would make you and I break our vows to each other, surely.”

Jon ignored the remark. “And if Dorne didn’t rebel but there was famine, the summer was too dry and the Reach could not provide, but the North had plenty for harvest, what would you do?”

Dany grew discontent with this conversation, she could feel it. She could sense him testing her again. “I would demand the North’s aid, Jon, because I would have a duty to ensure my people’s survival,” she stated sternly, “But isn’t it the North that suffered from famine before? Isn’t it the South that aided it under the rule of a Targaryen? And if Dorne rebelled because their heir hasn’t been chosen for ours… well that doesn’t even matter. We will have none.”

“Who would come after us, then?” Once more Jon let it slide that she spoke as if he already agreed.

“I don’t know,” Dany said in a low voice, almost a whisper, “Tyrion asked me this once. I told him, we’ll discuss the succession once I wear the crown. Perhaps I would choose a successor, a child from one of the noble families to be raised at court and learn to rule.”

“From a noble family in the North or in the South?” Jon didn’t like where this conversation was going, not the least bit. Staring into the fire he could almost see Sansa’s face in front of him, ‘you didn’t think…’

“In the South, Jon,” Dany said, “After all, there are six kingdoms in the South, and only one in the North. It has to come from the South.”

Jon chuckled, “You’ve just bound the North to Southern rule, Dany.”

Dany sipped from her cup. True, she just walked into the trap her own words laid out for her, or at least that is what it felt like. “They’d still be a separate Kingdom,” she pointed out.

“Aye, they could call themselves a kingdom,” Jon smiled at her, “But it would be in name only, for they would not have anything else to show for it, certainly not independence.”

“The North doesn’t accept a Southern ruler, I get that,” Dany said, “But if the heir is from the North, what would the Southern six kingdoms say? Would Dorne not rebel seeing a Stark on the throne?”

“I would think the Lannisters would rebel before that,” Jon laughed, and Dany joined in, before she grew silent.

“We would need an heir, I know that,” she said softly, “But it isn’t something I can change. I would, if I could, whatever the price I would pay it. I would give anything for a Targaryen heir, for my House to survive my time, everything I’ve gained to be inherited by one who carries both my name and my blood. It is the curse of belonging to a great House, I suppose, that you feel the weight of responsibility to further it.”

“Children inherit their father’s name, Dany,” Jon remarked.

“They do,” Dany whispered into the fire, “But my brothers are dead, they’ll sire no sons to inherit, and their sons will sire none either.”

Jon looked at her then, studying her. Her face seemed as if she struggled with this.

“Would you and I be wed, would you be happy,” he asked kindly.

“I don’t know,” Dany smiled at him, her smile more of acceptance, “I don’t think queens and kings are meant to be happy. I thought so once, but then I grew up and became a Queen. Tell me, are you happy, being King?”

“I can’t say that I am,” he whispered, “I am not sure what that even means, if I am honest.” It was true. Jon’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, “Are you happy?”

She smiled, “No,” she said, “But I am proud. I am proud of how far I’ve come. You should be as well. Your people love you, they chose you.”

“I don’t think it is measured that way,” Jon whispered, “I don’t think being loved by the people makes anyone happy.” Her gaze fell on the fire, and Jon could see on her face some kind of longing that he never saw in her before.

“When I was a child, we lived in a beautiful house in Braavos,” she began, “It had a lemontree in the garden, and a red door. When I think of happiness, that’s what comes to mind.”

She chuckled then as she turned to him. “I know of something that would make me happy now, Jon Snow,” she said, and Jon understood.

“That,” he was searching for words, “That is not something I tread with lightly.”

“What does that mean?” Dany asked with enthusiasm.

“I promised myself long ago,” Jon whispered, “I will never sire a bastard. The world is cruel to bastards. I wouldn’t want another one to be brought to this world.”

“But you wouldn’t, I can’t…” she said, “Besides, we’d be married soon.”

“I’ve not made a decision,” Jon said, staring into his cup, “I told you it is not my decision.”

“Whose is it then?”

“The Lords council,” Jon said as he stood, “Tomorrow, I’ll bring your proposal to the Lords council. We shall see what they say.”

He handed her his cup and made for the door. He had what he needed, as hard as it was to admit. He turned back from the door, “Thank you for this conversation, Dany,” he said softly, then he left.

***

Jon entered the solar almost silently, wishing he had a place this tranquil, perhaps a solar of his own to sit by the fire by himself and ponder on his misery. How quickly things change. How easily just yesterday at this time he would’ve agreed. No, he wouldn’t have, he reminded himself. It wasn’t agreement he would’ve given, he would’ve not taken that step. He would’ve told the truth instead.

“Jon,” he heard Sansa’s soft voice behind him, but didn’t move. Sitting by the fire in the chair he always used to, he didn’t want to end the peace of it. Slowly, she emerged. She wore a nightshift and a robe, her hair loosely braided on one side. He didn’t wake her, he could tell by the dark circles under her eyes. His gaze fell back on the fire.

“Go on, say it,” he said, “Say, you told me so.”

Sansa sighed. They were both here, where they spent so many hours sitting together, talking and laughing, and yet it seemed as if there was an invisible wall between them now.

“You wanted it,” she whispered as she sat down, “Why?”

Jon just shrugged, without a glance at her. She leaned close to him.

“You have a home, you have the North behind you, everyone who loves you, I love you, why, Jon?” She demanded, “You would throw us all away, and you say I would never understand so help me. Help me understand, why?”

Jon closed his eyes as his head fell back against the chair.

“I never wanted to be king, and Winterfell never was my home,” He whispered, “It never felt like it. Perhaps too much time was spent sulking in corners, being looked down upon, but it never felt like my home. It is your home. Yours, and Arya’s and Bran’s… but not mine.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, her hand reaching out for his but then she caught herself, pulling it back.

“Who am I, Sansa?” Jon looked at her with that familiar pain in his eyes that he always hid from others.

“You are Jon,” she said.

“I know that,” Jon’s lips turned to a smile, “but who am I? Where do I belong?”

“With us,” she whispered, “with me, but you don’t want that.”

“You cannot know what I want,” Jon said kindly, “No one can. Even I cannot figure what I want. One day I want this, I want what I always wanted, to be a Stark. The other day I want to be who I was born to be, a Targaryen. Whatever that means for I have no idea.” He sighed, “Most days I just want to be free, like Bran said. I want to be free.”

“None of us is ever free,” Sansa said leaning back in her chair, “we are all tied to our past, our loved ones, our duties, our beliefs, we are never free.”

“Then perhaps,” Jon said with a smile, “I want to forget the past, I want none to love me, to resign all my duties and part with all my beliefs. After all, they’re but the same as I’ve always known, but I am not. Not since I know, Sansa. It took a long time, but I see it. I am not the same. Jon Snow died in the snow in Castle Black, stabbed in the heart by his steward.”

“You thought she offered you freedom,” she whispered.

“Perhaps, that was what I told myself. She offered a different cage. For me, for the North. Give something a name, then give a different, fancier one, it is still the same thing, it’s just wrapped in fancier words.”

“I am sorry,” she said, and Jon finally looked at her, wondering if she meant it. She understood the look in his eyes, the question. “I truly am sorry, for how you feel. I wish I could change it, to give you something to hold on to. To prove to you that you belong here.”

Jon smiled a forgiving smile. “That is because that’s what you want,” he said. He could see in her eyes the realisation of what her words meant, but there was nothing else to say. He knew that she couldn’t give anything that would help him, and she knew as well.

“What will you do,” she whispered.

“Try to figure who I am meant to be,” he said, once more gazing at the flames.

“What will you tell her?”

“Nothing, I will let the Lords decide,” Jon took a deep breath, knowing well what that decision would be.

“They will never agree, Jon,” Sansa stated the obvious, they both knew, but there was no hostility in her voice, no scolding him. She didn’t mean to point out how his plan to seek the lords’ approval would only sow discord, it wasn’t the right time for such advice.

“No, they won’t,” Jon agreed, “And that will give her an answer.”

“One she won’t like at all,” Sansa’s voice was shaking at that, “And I don’t mean to be hostile, I truly don’t but none of us can tell how she will react.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said into the fire. “I can tell now.”

“How come?”

“Because I know what she wants. What she truly wants.”

***

“Your grace?”

Daenerys turned from the window, her smile growing wide at the sight.

“Lord Edric,” she greeted the man, “I am glad to see you on your feet.”

“It’s just Edric, if it please your grace,” Edric didn’t move from the door, not even as she gestured him to seat himself. “I am no Lord, not yet anyways.”

“Is there a lordship promised, then?” She asked playfully, “If not, you should ask for one, you truly deserve it.”

“Oh it is in the making,” Edric remarked with a grin, “If we all survive to see it. The King will grant the Dreadfort. Or Lady Sansa will, for it is hers as the widow of the last Bolton. Glad that prick died a Bolton, he would’ve besmirched the Snow name. I will rename the keep Snowfort.”

“I see plans are made, then,” Dany smiled.

“Aye, they are, for what plans are worth,” Edric nodded, “It is not why I’ve come.”

“Why have you come, Edric,” Daenerys asked with genuine curiosity in her voice.

“I came to thank you,” he said, “For saving my life. You and the King. I have no love for Targaryens, none of us do. But by the Gods, you are different.”

“Different?”

“Aye,” Edric grinned once more. “Be it you had a different hair and eyes, you could pass like a northern lass. For only a northern lass would have done what you’ve done. I thank you for it.”

“You may be surprised,” Daenerys remarked kindly, “But there is kindness in the world, elsewhere too. Not only in the North. Perhaps there is more kindness elsewhere, than in the North.”

Edric seemed at loss for words. They stared at each other for a long moment, him wondering what she could’ve meant and she wondering why she spoke so harshly after such a unique compliment. Then he bowed, “your grace,” and she nodded. He was gone before she looked up again.

***

Jon dressed silently, despite Lord Reed assisting, despite how he felt eager to seek the man’s advice, to hear his opinion. There was no point. It was too late to reconsider anything. As if fate had been written and he merely walked the path laid out to him, there was no use to discuss what-if’s because there was no other option. He’s made up his mind.

Perhaps he should’ve told Reed what he was about to do, perhaps he should’ve planned ahead. But he saw no reason why. He knew what’ll happen. He knew what will be said, he could almost foretell it word by word. He could imagine the hateful eyes. In an hour or so, everything will change. Kill the boy, Jon Snow, he thought to himself, kill the boy and let the man be born.

His eyes settled on the cuirass on the table. Two direwolves, facing each other. He wore this every day, he grew accustomed to its weight by now. But he won’t have need for it today. He won’t have need for it ever again.

He grabbed his cloak, the one that the Queen so kindly returned, the one Sansa so lovingly made, with leather straps crossed on his chest the way Ned Stark used to wear it. Two direwolves facing each other. He set it aside, settling with a longcoat instead. Perhaps he will have need for a new cloak as well. Perhaps he won’t have need for anything. Perhaps soon enough the dead will arrive, and he will die doing what he’s done all his life, he’ll fall in the fight. For once, the thought didn’t bring any anxiety with it, it only brought relief. He shrugged as he tied the lace of his coat, then rushed out of the chamber, taking the long corridors toward the great hall of Winterfell.


	30. Winterfell III / VII.

The hall wasn’t even half as full as it would be for a Lords Council. Where people would be crammed on benches and stand in lines, there were merely a few dozen scattered. Yet all the major objectors were here, Jon thought. Lord Glover will surely indulge in what was to come. Little Lyanna Mormont will surely speak up. Lord Cerwyn’s whinging was just as inevitable. Jon amused himself with the thought of how such things would work in the South, only to remind himself, the southern rulers didn’t hold Lords councils. At least the Kings and Queens of the Seven Kingdoms didn’t, for Jon knew little of what happened in the other six kingdoms. Perhaps the southern wardens struggled the same way with their bannermen that he did.

Sansa sat on his right, her face like a mask lacking any emotion as she studied the hall. Daenerys on the other side, not just of the table but also the emotional spectrum, looked cheerful. She was way too optimistic, Jon thought. Perhaps she expected some kind of miracle. Perhaps she had a plan. But Jon knew how this will unfold, and he doubted very much that any plan by the Queen had any impact on the outcome. Ser Davos, Bran and Arya to the right, Ser Jorah Mormont and the two dark skinned Essosi, the girl and the unsullied commander to the left. Jon felt isolated between two camps.

“I’ve asked for this assembly to discuss certain matters,” Jon began, standing between the two seated women. The hall slowly silenced as all eyes fell on him. “The first being one that is long overdue.” He nodded toward Sansa, and she stood.

“Edric,” Sansa smiled toward the leader of the Wolves, the Company of the Rose, motioning him to the middle of the hall.

“I would ask you to kneel, but I know it is not without great hardship,” Sansa said gently. “You’ve already sworn on your knees, so we can disregard the kneeling today. The king and I are in agreement for long, that you have proven your loyalty and honour, as have your men.”

Edric’s face turned to a wide grin, as the lords nodded and murmured in agreement.

“We have decided that henceforth you are to be known as Lord Edric Snow, Lord of the Dreadfort, albeit I am glad to hear that you rename it Snowfort.”

Jon’s eyes settled on Jaime Lannister for a moment, noting the smile on the man’s face. Yes, even the Lannister agreed with them, Jon thought, at least there was this one thing they could all agree upon.

“Lord Edric Snow,” Sansa spoke confidently, “I ask you to serve House Stark as our bannerman, to stand by our side and come to our aid whenever called upon, now and always.”

“Now and Always, Lady Sansa,” Edric declared, “Now and Always. And if I may add, I have a vow yet to fulfil but I swear I will. I shall give you the greatest garden of winter roses once the war is won, my Lady, at Snowfort, there’ll be none like it.”

The hall erupted in laughter, and Jon laughed heartily for a moment at Sansa’s confused face, watching Edric limp back to the corner where he stood before, only to have some of the men offer him seat on the front bench instead. This was good, Jon thought, they accepted him. He was glad and relieved to see.

“There is one more matter to discuss,” Jon said then, while his mind was still wondering what the best way was to present this. Standing between the two ‘camps’ made it so much harder. He decided to walk out to the open space between the long tables.

“I will tell you as it is,” He said then, “There is no point twisting it.” His eyes settled on Lyanna Mormont, her face full of worry, and if Jon was right in his perception, reassurance. The little girl gave Jon more support than most of these lords and ladies combined. He felt guilty at the thought.

“Queen Daenerys approached me with a proposal,” he said, his voice stern, his words factual. “She offers independence to the North save it being part of a coalition with the Southern six kingdoms, and she wishes to seal it with marriage – to me.”

The hall remained silent. Jon took a deep breath, looking around their shocked faces. His gaze fell on Jaime Lannister, standing by the door. “I will not make such a decision by myself,” he said, “It is not my decision. It must be a decision of the North, but since we are at war and many of those who have a vote are stationed elsewhere, I ask you to speak and decide.”

More silence. If there was anything Jon didn’t expect, it was silence. Perhaps they would accept it? No, they never would, Jon thought, just as Lord Glover stood. How predictable of him.

“A coalition, you say,” Lord Glover spoke. “How would that work?”

“I asked the Queen the same question myself, Lord Glover,” Jon nodded. “I asked what she would do if the South was attacked, if one of the southern kingdoms rebelled.”

Jon turned toward Daenerys, just in time to catch the smile freezing on her lips.

“I will not lie,” Jon said, “The Queen said she would call to arms the North. If the south required aid, the Queen would demand the North to aid it. Yet, we must add, was it the North in need of aid, the Queen assured the South would provide it just the same.”

“Who would rule us?” Jon could hear behind him.

“The King in the North,” Daenerys answered sternly.

“And once you birth an heir, who would rule us then?” Jon felt sorry for her for a moment. This was not something anyone would declare on a council like this. Yet kings and queens could not hold such secrets to themselves.

Jon waited for Daenerys to speak, in case she meant to change her answer. But the queen remained silent, her eyes fixed on his, defeat clearly portrayed in them. Jon took a deep breath to speak – indeed, he foretold every word that’ll be said here today, he thought.

“I asked this question, as well, Lord Hornwood,” he turned toward the man named, “The queen would choose an heir from one of the major houses.”

“Then she better chose a Stark,” Lord Glover stated firmly, “One of Lady Sansa’s.”

“My Lord,” Sansa spoke, “If I may remind you that I am unwed.”

“Aye,” Glover countered, “But surely, Lady Sansa, you realise that there are plenty of northern suitors at your feet. The son of Manderly, for one, or perhaps one of my own. There are plenty.”

“That, is a different matter,” Jon said, glancing at Sansa, “One that is quite unrelated. The Queen reasons that due to the South consisting of Six kingdoms, while the North being but one, her choice must come from the South. Perhaps wed to a northern girl.” Daenerys never said that last bit. But Jon felt the need to be fair, and to be fair now, he needed to represent her fairly, as impossible as her proposal had been. The whole situation was impossible. They were at war, the dead were marching upon them, as much as fifty thousand, and they were discussing marriages and heirs as if they lived in a different age.

However, this last answer did it, regardless of Jon’s addition, just as he knew it would. The Lords shouted, some stood. Jon looked back at Daenerys, wondering why she never asked him to defer from bringing this matter to the Lords. There was no chance, she knew, she said so herself.

“The North knows no king but the King in the North,” Lyanna Mormont stood, and Jon allowed himself a slight smile. So much fierceness was burning in the little girl, it could be more than enough for half the North itself. She never faltered.

The loud proclamation that followed was just as inevitable as Lady Mormont’s declaration. Jon glanced once more at Jaime Lannister, his face still emotionless, merely watching the event unfold. Finally, Daenerys stood slowly, as her face darkened. Now it comes, Jon thought.

“I offered a solution,” she said sternly, loudly and clearly for all to hear. “I offered peace, and I offered you your king, with a position by my side. The North may declare itself independent countless times, yet it is part of my inheritance. I fight beside you, I know you. I would hate to fight against you.”

That was wrong, Jon shook his head to Dany. Threaten the North and it will close ranks even more against the threat, has she not learned that already? Yet Jon knew she would attempt to convince them, and he knew her only weapon now was fear for the people weren’t willing, that much was made clear.

They responded just as Jon expected. He watched as her face grew angry, hearing the shouting, listening to their statements that grew harsher and harsher. Someone even shouted for her to go home and take her beasts with her.

“So be it,” Daenerys hissed. “I offer you an alternative, and make your choice wisely, for you know that you cannot defeat me.”

No, just no, Jon thought, and yet, it was exactly as he expected it to happen.

“Kneel,” she said, “Kneel for the North, your grace.” Jon’s eyes met hers, as the hall fell silent. “Bend the knee, and I shall keep to the marriage alliance I proposed.”

Jon looked around again. All their eyes were on him, no one dared to speak a word. His gaze settled on Sansa, as Daenerys continued, watching as Sansa’s eyes filled with resentment.

“I can see now that the North doesn’t accept willingly what would be a generous offer,” Daenerys stated, “So to avoid a fight, bend the knee.”

Jon wondered what Jaime Lannister thought of the scene, as he turned and looked and saw the same emotionless eyes staring back at him. Here he stood, in the middle of the hall, surrounded by people, yet all alone, exactly as he foresaw himself. The last moment had passed, the last chance to stop this chain of words, to end this without ending everything he ever knew. Jon swallowed hard.

“I cannot do that,” He said lowly and the hall erupted in cheer. Yet as he turned, he could see Sansa’s face wasn’t showing anything more but resentment. Resentment and fear. For him. She shook her head, barely visibly. She understood now, Jon thought.

“I cannot do that,” he repeated his words firmer this time, to an enraged Daenerys, “I cannot give you the North. It is not mine to give, and it is not yours to demand.”

The hall was filled with his praise, long moments passing with the chant of “king in the north”. One last time, Jon thought. They couldn’t have known, he reminded himself, they couldn’t have realised what was coming. His eyes settled on a shocked Howland Reed.

“My father ruled the Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys reasoned, “I am his heir. It is mine to demand, Jon Snow.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, you have no right to demand. You said so yourself, your grace. You said, had your brother Rhaegar lived, he would be king, and his heirs after him. Have you not told me thus?”

Confusion ran through her gaze then. “My brother is dead,” she declared, “and so are his heirs.”

Jon took a deep breath, “Not all of them.”

She looked firmly confused now. The hall fell silent moments ago, the air so heavy with their silence that one could slice it, and Jon felt its weight as he looked at Howland Reed, eyes full of pain meeting his. This wasn’t what Reed intended, Jon knew. He glanced at Bran, who merely stared into the distance. Neither of them spoke, neither of them was eager to back Jon with the truth.

“Lord Reed,” Jon asked aloud, “If you may share the truth as you know it.”

“Jon…” Reed began but Jon raised his hand. “It is what I want, my Lord. It is time, it was time a long time ago. Let us not carry this burden any further.”

Reed stood then, looking around in the hall as all eyes settled on him.

“I fought against Rhaegar’s forces on the Trident,” Reed began, “I saw him fall. I went with Lord Eddard to find his sister once the war had been won. She was in a tower, in Dorne, guarded by three of the Kingsguard, among them Ser Arthur Dayne. We defeated them. The Lady Lyanna laid in her birthing bed, obviously defeated by the task. She birthed a son, your grace,” Reed sighed looking at Daenerys. She fell back in her chair.

“We thought the boy a bastard. Her mother dead, her father obviously your brother, your grace. He was Lord Eddard’s kin, so he took the boy. He brought the boy to Winterfell. He swore an oath, as did we all, that what I speak should never be spoken, for it was peace once more. The boy would gain nothing from knowing, Lord Eddard said.”

Jon didn’t dare to look around, feeling them all watching him. He merely glanced at Lyanna Mormont, her eyes full of hatred, likely mirroring the rest of theirs, he thought.

“I took something else from the tower, a diary,” Reed continued, standing straighter, becoming more resolute as he spoke. “To my shame I have not read it until long after. It is Rhaegar Targaryen’s diary, one of many. I brought it to Winterfell when I arrived. I presented it to the King in the North.”

The collective gasp was audible across the hall, “I advised Maester Aemon at Castle Black, for he was a Targaryen. I begged Lord Eddard to tell the truth, but King Robert hunted your grace, still, and thus Ned refused. He said, the boy will grow up as his bastard, he acknowledged him as such. It was the king whom we took from that tower as a babe.”

Silence. Just complete silence, Jon was aching to hear them, not daring to look at any of them. He wished they cursed him, that they gave in to the hatred they all must’ve felt. But it was only silence.

“That boy,” Read declared, “That boy grew up believing himself a bastard, and took the black. He’s been elected Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. He’s ended the warring with the freefolk, and he reclaimed the North, gave every northerner the pride once more to stand straight. The man that boy became was named King in the North! Not because of his birthright, but because of the man he is...” Reed’s voice broke, “because he fought for us. He still fights for us, he would die for any of us. Because he leads us, he would give all he has for any of us. Not because he has the right, how many times he’s told me he has no right to the North. But he does, your grace, for your claim is as false as that of the Lannister Queen. Jon is the heir to the Seven Kingdoms!”

Jon finally exhaled the air stuck in his lungs. Reed did what he could to pacify the North in this monologue, Jon thought watching the man sit down on the bench, visibly broken.

“A bastard cannot be the heir,” Daenerys said, her voice thin from her disbelief.

“He is not a bastard,” Bran spoke then. “Rhaegar Targaryen has wed my aunt Lyanna in Dorne.”

“It is true,” Sam stepped forward in his usual reassuring manner, “I’ve read it in the grand maester’s diary. He’s annulled his marriage to Elia and wed Lyanna in a secret ceremony.”

“Rhaegar’s diary details it all,” Sansa said then. “I’ve read the diary. It confirms everything. He never kidnapped our aunt, they eloped together, he loved her, and she loved him. Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was built on a lie. His whole reign was built on a lie.” Sansa turned to Daenerys, then, “It is you who should bend the knee, your grace.”

“I ask you no such thing,” Jon said lowly, as Daenerys looked into his eyes. She resented him, hated him, despised him in that one look. He didn’t see Sansa’s stunned gaze on him.

“You can have it,” Jon said, “You can have your Southern kingdoms. But you cannot have the North.”

He’s heard some say “aye”, but she stood once more silencing the hall.

“I can have the North because I can take it, with fire and blood.” Her words indeed burned with dragonfire, as she spoke. Jon was certain that everyone felt the same shiver running down their spine that he did.

“You’ll do no such thing,” He said, his voice trying to sooth her anger as much as he could and failing.

“And who would stop me,” Daenerys hissed, “Which one of you could stop me?!”

“I can,” Jon stood straight facing her. “I have a proposal for you, Dany. I suggest you take it, if you still heed my advice, for I warned you once, if we die, we die standing. Any man of the North would rather march south as a blue-eyed corpse then kneel to an outsider once more, and once we do, there’ll be no stopping the army of the dead. You’ll lose everything you fought for all your life.” Loud ‘aye’ was filling the hall as he spoke.

She took a moment, fuming in her anger, before she gave a slight nod to him to continue.

“I offer you my claim,” Jon declared, “My word that I will not raise a claim to the Iron Throne, if you grant independence to the North without any interference on your part. I vow this, if you fight beside us to defeat the dead, and then leave the North never to return, I shall not raise my claim. It is yours.”

Long moments passed. Jon didn’t dare to look at anyone anymore, his eyes fixed on Daenerys instead.

“You would have use of my armies,” Daenerys responded sternly, “you would have use of my dragons. Yet you give nothing in return, for I could easily turn them against you and end whatever claim you have.”

“Aye, you could,” Jon said with a shrug, “There is no denying that. You could burn me alive and burn the North to ashes. I assure you, I do burn.” He pulled up his sleeve to show his old burn on his hand.

“Yet you will not do, that, Dany.”

“Do not call me…” she began, but he interrupted.

“You will not do it because you belong to a great house, and you feel the burden of responsibility to further it.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. It was a blow below belt, Jon knew, one he hoped he won’t have to give her. But if he burned everything around him now, why not, why not if it meant their only chance.

“You cannot have children, you told me yourself,” Jon spoke, “You know well that you cannot further your own House. You have no idea of how to ensure succession after you, none when your Hand enquired, and none when I asked you. I am the future of your house, and you won’t turn against me, because my death is the death of House Targaryen.”

He watched as her face turned to one full of pain. She gave in, Jon realised. He felt ashamed of himself like never before in his life, knowing well that she didn’t deserve the treatment he gave her, that they all gave her. Yet she brought it upon herself, had she but accepted the decision of the North, he would’ve never shared. No matter how he struggled with it, no matter how he was pressed by Reed, perhaps even by Sansa later, he would’ve respected her enough not to share. She brought it upon herself, Jon assured himself, yet it rang hollow. We are no different than those in the south, he thought bitterly.

She walked out from behind the table. She was so small, Jon thought, as she stopped right in front of him. She slapped him.

Jon didn’t expect this. But what did it matter, he thought, likely everyone in the hall wanted to do the same. He offered his hand, instead of any words. There were no more words to speak. She stood for a moment, her raging eyes piercing his as she bit her lips.

Then she took his hand and the hall erupted in cheer. She didn’t care, she turned straight away and marched out, Ser Jorah and the Essosi closely behind her.

Jon closed his eyes as he stood, for a short moment of peace. It was bound to continue, he knew well enough. The first part of the drama has ended, exactly as he expected. Part two was about to begin. He took a deep breath and began.

“You all named me your King,” he said, the hall falling silent once more, “It was the greatest honour of my life. But I am not a Stark. I have no right to accept it, I never did. I can only ask for your forgiveness for leading you astray, yet it was for your sake. The North had to unite against the enemy, and there was no other way. Yet now, that you know the truth, I cannot be your king anymore. I would not think you wish it either.”

He duly expected the sneering, but there was none. As he looked around, he only saw stunned faces, confusion in the eyes, and regret. Perhaps they really loved him. Perhaps they felt some kind of loss. But there was no other way, not for him. He couldn’t pretend. Not when he was to carry the Targaryen name.

“Who will rule us?” Lord Cerwyn spoke, and Jon turned toward the high table, the confusion he saw on the faces of many in he hall mirrored in the eyes of those he called his family.

“The North knows no king but the king in the North whose name is Stark,” he said, “The King, or Queen in the North.” His eyes settled on Bran.

“Aye,” Lord Glover spoke, causing Jon to chuckle, “No Targaryen shall rule the North, not when Ned Stark’s son lives!” They all began to join in, but Bran raised his hand.

“I cannot be your king,” Bran said in that familiarly lifeless voice of his. “I cannot be king. I am the three eyed raven, I cannot be anything else.”

Jon’s gaze fell on Sansa just as Bran turned toward her.

“There is your Queen,” Jon said, drawing his sword he placed in front of himself, hoping that none could see how he used it to balance his weight as he knelt. “The Queen in the North.”

It was so familiar, he thought as he knelt in the middle of the hall, the shouts were almost the same, swords in the air, men and women – and Lyanna Mormont – chanting, “The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!” He looked up, at Sansa, her face once more a mask. Like a true queen, Jon thought, as he watched her slowly rise from her chair. Arya chanted with the crowd, and Jon smiled. This turned out well enough, at the least. Sansa was much better at ruling, anyways.

He slowly stood and turned to leave the hall, his eyes just meeting those of a stunned Jaime Lannister when he heard.

“Jon of House Targaryen,” Sansa called after him and the hall fell silent. He wondered if he turned back at hearing the name, or how unfamiliar it sounded, or the fact that he had a name. He wasn’t Snow anymore. “You are not yet dismissed.” Jon chuckled. Already a queen.

She waited for the hall return to silence.

“There is fifty thousand in the army of the dead, at the least, marching against Winterfell,” she began. “Fifty thousand, because the living halved their number since they crossed the Wall, lead by you. We stand a chance, because you’ve united the North, and you’ve brought the allies we needed, and you’ve lead this fight.”

None agreed aloud, and Jon began to look around. There was acknowledgement in the eyes of many.

“You are not my father’s son, that is true,” Sansa continued. “Yet you are my aunt’s son, and as much a Stark as you always were. The blood of the first men still flows in your veins.”

“I ask you, Jon, to lead us in this fight,” Sansa’s eyes were pleading, ever so slightly, Jon was certain only he could see. There was murmur in the hall. They didn’t like it, of course. They would never follow a Targaryen willingly, this was always a certainty, was it normal times… but these weren’t normal times, not at all. Jon nodded, without any further thinking of it. He knew it was his fate, that was the only thing he knew for sure.

Sansa turned toward the grumbling hall. “And I ask of you all that you honour your pledges and oaths of fealty and follow my command. Follow this man in the war, every order he’s given thus far and every command he’s yet to give, you obey.” They just kept grumbling. No Sansa, Jon thought sarcastically, this is the North. They won’t like this, not in the least.

“My Lords,” Sansa raised her voice. She could be just as threatening as the Dragon Queen, Jon bemused himself with the thought as he watched her trying to herd this group of hens for the first time as their queen.

“Have you not proclaimed me your queen just now?” She asked, no, demanded. “Have you done so only to forsake my command? Have you not heard this man giving up his birthright for YOUR country, your will?”

The hall was silent. No, it won’t be enough, Jon thought.

“He bought your freedom for you!” Sansa raised her voice. She didn’t sound desperate, but Jon knew, the situation was desperate. This was exactly why they lied, what they were so eager to avoid. Lord Reed stood once more.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, “I was not here when you named the king, but you’ve done so because of what he’s done for the North, not because of his name. What do names matter if all of us die? Either we fight, together, with a leader capable, or we all die. There is no better choice to lead us against the dead, it is his destiny to defeat it. Only he can defeat it.”

“That is true,” Bran spoke, and all turned toward him as one. “Jon is the prince that was promised, the son of ice and fire, the hero of the prophecies. Only he can lead the fight against the dead to victory.”

Finally, confirmations of “Aye” began to sound across the hall. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, as Sansa nodded to him. He turned and left, for the godswood. Not to pray, he was past beyond that. He smiled to himself remembering Sansa’s words, ‘It is the only place I can be alone.’ He wanted to be alone, he wanted to not have anyone questioning him, scolding him, declaring him any names. He just wanted to sink back into his misery, wondering who exactly the man was he became. Now that he gave up everything, both his past and his future, what was left of him? He sat in the godswood for hours trying to figure out if there was anything.

xxxxx

The keep fell back to its usual buster, as if nothing happened, servants were rushing about, the sounds of clamping steel from the vast tents of the smithy filling the halls and corridors. Jon stopped on the rampart, to see if the unsullied began to depart. To his relief, the countless black tents stood as they did in the morning, groups of Essosi soldiers practicing in the snow. Far toward the woods he could still see three dragons in slumber. As if nothing has happened.

He made his way through the corridors, the same path he took last night, again wondering what he will say. He knocked on the door as soon as he stopped in front of it, before he could turn around and walk away. To his surprise, the two guards stepped aside just as they did the last time he stood here.

He entered, Missandei opening the door.

She stood by the window, not looking at him. She glanced at Ser Jorah standing beside her, and likely read on his face whom the visitor was, Jon thought. The old knight’s face was like an open book, full of misery at his sight.

“Leave us,” Daenerys said, and the knight rushed out the door, followed by the girl. Finally, the door closed. Jon felt trapped in a cage.

“You knew this,” she said in a bitter voice, “You knew this and didn’t tell me.”

“I tried to tell you by the waterfall,” Jon answered, knowing full well that his trying wasn’t exactly determined.

“You knew it and you’ve let me discuss options with you, you’ve let me sit there while you humiliated me in front of the North.”

“You brought that on yourself,” Jon said annoyed, “If only you accepted their refusal I would’ve never had to say a thing.”

She turned. Her eyes were sorrowful and tired, dark circles rounding them. Jon never saw her like this, defeated. She’s never been defeated, he reminded himself. No, that’s not true. He defeated her before, on Dragonstone. He’s bent her to his will before.

“And you would’ve let me believe I was the last.”

Jon smiled, “It’s not like I feel a Targaryen, Dany.”

“Don’t you dare, calling me that,” she hissed. “You lied to me. I told you, never lie to me again.”

“And what would I have said?!” Jon lost it, truly lost it. “What gives you the right to demand my secrets? It was mine, not yours, and I gave it to you, because you’ve left me no choice in the hall. You and your temper and your threats, is that the kind of Queen you are then?”

She shrugged. “This won’t work,” she said somewhat triumphantly, “Not this time.”

Jon fell silent, watching her as she came close to him, her eyes piercing his.

“You’ve thought that I’ll just leave for the South and keep my word, and everything will be simply as you wanted it to be,” she hissed.

“Nothing is ever simple,” Jon said lowly.

“No, nothing is.”

They stood for a moment and Jon wondered if he should say anything more, but the words didn’t come. She seemed as if there was an ice wall between them, perhaps the Wall itself.

“Nothing will be as you wanted it to be,” she declared, her voice full of resentment. “You promised me an heir, for your miserable life, for this frozen wasteland you love so much. I will have what was promised, Jon Snow.”

“I’ll wed some suitable lass then,” Jon said softly.

“Yes you will,” Daenerys hissed, “You’ll wed the one I chose and you better pump some babes into her on my command for I swear to you, I will hold no reservations to burn this land to the ground and all those so eagerly standing against me if you don’t…” her voice trailed off, Jon thought it possibly at the sight for his face for he was shocked, truly shocked.

“Yes, Jon Snow,” she said triumphantly, “If you thought I’ll leave you here to just do as you wish with what’s due to me you were gravely mistaken.”

“This was not part of our agreement,” Jon stated, knowing full well that it was futile.

“It is, now,” she hissed at him, “You will come with me to the south. You will fight for what is mine, and you will wed whomever I chose. And you will never ever see this accursed land you call home, I swear it. That, is our agreement.”

Jon felt his rage boiling ever hotter.

“It would’ve been you and I, Jon Snow,” she said then, taking a step back from him, “We would’ve been invincible, we would’ve been perfect. All you needed to do is say yes, to tell me the truth and I would’ve given you that brithright you so easily offered for those who will never thank you for it. The last Targaryens, you and I, you could’ve been by my side. You chose not to, you chose THIS.”

“We would’ve never had an heir,” Jon pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said coldly, “You will give me an heir. You will obey my command, for your precious North, you will obey me for the rest of your miserable life.” She turned from him. Their talk was over, she made it clear. Jon rushed to the door, his mind racing. She would order him to wed whomever she told him to wed, to live in the south under her constant surveillance, so she can take what she needed from him on her terms.

“And Jon,” she called after him, but he didn’t turn, his hand already on the handle. “Your life is worth to keep, you were right at that. But if you ever disobey me, if you ever lie to me again, don’t think the lives of those you love are just as precious, the lives of the northmen, women and children are so precious to me. I only have need of you. I have no need for them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I fight for the North, only the North, always the North.”  
> &  
> Angry people say stuff.


	31. Winterfell III / VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original chapter before I turned it to what was posted before. Only change to it is the scene w/ Davos added.

The sun was pale and weak, barely able to bring some daylight, and everything seemed grey, even the snow on the ground, on the fields and as far as the eye could see. Jon stood on the rampart, staring into the distance. He saw the wolves depart, his heart skipping beats, his lungs holding breaths watching hundreds of direwolves running, following the white one. Ghost. Jon longed for the animal. He wondered if he could warg but decided against trying. Ghost needed to focus, he needed to prove himself to a pack of hundreds. And it seemed that Ghost did that, for hundreds were running behind him, crossing the fields, the road, running south. It was an unbelievable sight.

They were probably long gone now. They only left behind them the question, lingering in his mind – did Ghost just prove to be a better leader than Jon was? He turned away from the wall, watching as the men assembled in the courtyard. One of his many despicable acts began to unfold, he thought. Two of them brought forth a long bundle, neatly wrapped in furs, and tied on a horse, before a rider mounting behind him. The brown hair was barely visible among the furs, but Jon knew. Bran was departing Winterfell. Not by his own will, though. No, Bran had no will at the moment, for Jon had deprived him of it, of his sight and of his mind, his third eye. He watched the maester rush forth and hand over a small saddle bag to the rider, before looking up at him. Jon just nodded in acknowledgement.

The men wore the sigil of a black lizard, all of them. But to his surprise, he didn’t see Howland Reed. He didn’t instruct it, his scroll of instructions didn’t demand Reed’s departure, but he duly expected that Reed will leave him behind and make for White Harbor. If nothing else, then to deliver the boy that Reed spent many weeks conversing with before he arrived in Winterfell. Jon wondered how that worked. Did they warg each other? Did their ravens fly together and converse? Do ravens even converse?

The plan seemed to work well enough. Jon could not be certain that it would, that Bran wouldn’t discover. He didn’t eat or drink like others after all. Jon could only hope that he didn’t spend his spare time spying the kitchens, or the maester. But it seemed to work out, Bran was fast asleep atop a horse, and soon enough he’ll be fast riding toward White Harbor, his mind silent, and as far as Jon could tell, this was the most he could do to make Bran invisible. He would’ve never allowed for Bran to sacrifice himself, he had to do something.

The scroll was handed down as instructions were carried out, he knew. First, all were bound to silence, never to mention it. The maester was to take it to Reed, and then arrange with the kitchens, and supply the milk of the poppy. Reed was to take the scroll to the commander he chooses, who was to assemble fifty of his men for the task. Reed was to break his fast with Bran, for Bran would never suspect Reed, and hopefully, he would at least consume something. And he must’ve for he was duly put to sleep. Now it was only the matter of keeping him down, the task of the commander who rode with him. Jon went to see Bran this morning, to say goodbye once more to his sleeping brother. The irony of the scene didn’t escape him. Yes, Bran grew up, and yes, he was different, but as he slept he was the same little brother Jon knew, the same painful grip clenched at Jon’s heart at the sight of the incapacitated brother he was trying to send to safety.

“Another one of your lies?” Jon heard behind him. He didn’t turn, Edric’s voice didn’t mandate an engagement in conversation, not today.

“He asked me to burn him in the godswood,” Jon declared the truth instead, “He’s got a mark on him, he claims his whereabouts would shed light on whatever moves we make. I will not burn my brother alive.”

“Except he is not your brother,” Edric hissed.

“Cousin,” Jon remarked, “what does it even matter…”

“What does it matter?!” Jon felt Edric’s hand on his arm grabbing him, and he turned. “You lied to all of us! You lied to me.”

“Aye, I did,” Jon said, “And you got back to your homeland, you got a lord’s title and a keep going with it. Would you rather I told you the truth? You’d not be here, none of them northern fools would be here. All of them would be walled up in their keeps until the dead reach them, and then all of them would march among the dead. I lied, but it seems to me you came out of it well enough.”

“Was anything you said ever true, Jon of House Targaryen?” Edric’s eyes burned with hatred as he spoke the name.

“You tell me,” Jon said lowly, “When you saw the army of the dead, was that a lie, too? You fought beside me.”

“Don’t you dare throwing at me that you saved my life…”

Jon interrupted him, “Aye it must be hard for you, Edric! Two Targaryens saved your sorry ass as you called it, for you to become a lord. How hard that must be.”

Edric didn’t respond, and Jon turned back to the courtyard. He didn’t need this, he really didn’t. His own shame and the weight of his own miserable prospects were more than enough to carry, he didn’t need to hear it from those whose acceptance he craved.

“You really don’t know me if you think I would throw such a thing at you,” he whispered.

“But you just did,” Edric declared in an icy voice. Jon merely shrugged at it.

But Edric grabbed his arm once more, “I swore an oath to serve House Stark, I presume at your behest,” he whispered as he leaned close to Jon, “But don’t think I won’t cut your throat when I see the chance.”

“Go on, do it,” Jon said, “No one could stop you.” He looked into the eyes of the man who just two days ago declared himself his friend. “I am dead already. Do your duty and I’ll be glad to die for good.”

That stunned Edric as he stepped back. Jon wondered what kind of emotion sat on his own face, looking at the shock on Edric’s. But Edric looked beyond him then. He turned and left without a word, and Jon turned around.

Jaime Lannister was amused.

“That didn’t look to be a conversation among friends,” he said, eyebrow drawn high, slight smile on his face.

“Unless the promise of a dagger at my throat can be considered friendly advice, no it was not,” Jon remarked sarcastically. “I wouldn’t think I have many friends left here.”

“Samwell Tarly,” Jaime declared, “He’s just as smitten with you as he ever was. So are the Starks, albeit I can see you’re shipping off one of them.”

Jon chuckled. “I am surprised the Lannister army still camps outside the walls, Ser Jaime.”

“I am surprised the Unsullied army still does.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh, “Aye, I am surprised at that too.”

They laughed for a moment, until Jon’s eyes met Jaime’s. “What do you want, Ser Jaime?”

“Not your hand in marriage,” Jaime declared with a grin.

“You want to know if I will fight for her,” Jon stated.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaime answered without skipping a beat, “She outnumbers our forces to what, three to one? I was at the Blackwater Rush, I know what her dragons can do. It doesn’t matter whether you fight for her, for she has no need of it.”

Jon sighed, “I cannot fight against her either,” he said, “and even if I could, I would not. Besides, I am but a man. As you could perceive I’ve no army of my own anymore.”

“You would not…” Jaime repeated.

“Aye, I would not,” Jon declared once more as he nodded to the captain below. The gate opened, and they watched the riders depart. Jon’s fists clenched at the sight, at the wonder if it was the right thing to do. But anything was right when compared to leaving Bran to die.

“She is of my blood,” Jon said lowly, “Whatever happened in the hall yesterday, she is of my blood. I gave my word, but even if that mattered nothing, I would not turn on my blood.”

“And I would not ask you to,” Jaime said softly, and Jon turned toward him.

“I cannot see then what I could have to offer,” he said.

“I haven’t asked for anything,” Jaime smiled. “I merely thought you and I could converse. After all, neither of us seems to have anyone else to converse with. It tends to grow boring.”

“What are we to converse about, then,” Jon asked, smiling heartily. He was indeed grateful. Jaime thought for a moment.

“When I was a boy, I wanted to be a knight, the greatest knight that ever was. My father tried to fill our heads with how to scheme and how to play others, and Cersei listened. How all that matters was what you left in this world, your legacy, your House, and she listened, but I didn’t. I couldn’t wait to be out in the yard and spar. I wanted to be someone men looked up to, I imagined one day I’ll lead armies into great battles against all the odds and I’d be victorious, and my men would hail me.”

“Then the Mad King demanded my presence in the Kingsguard, and I can tell you, my father was truly furious for he couldn’t find a way out without being burned alive. His heir to give up family and future, to never be more than a night. It was like a dream come true. I dreamed of becoming the next Sword of the Morning. If only I knew the use of two swords.”

“Why are you telling me,” Jon whispered.

“For none of us becomes what we dreamed to become, ever,” Jaime said staring into the distance. “I’ve not become the image of Ser Arthur Dayne, and you’ve not become a Stark. I presume that is what you dreamed of when you were a boy.”

Jaime glanced at him with an eyebrow drawn high, and Jon nodded.

“I’ve watched you fight. I’ve listened and I watched, as you led this bickering lot,” Jaime said then, “I don’t really know what I am talking about. I mean to say that the Lions as you call them will stay. It is a nice change to follow a worthy leader in a worthy fight, even if his name is Targaryen.”

Jon felt the blood rush into his cheeks. “Anyone would’ve…” he began but Jaime interrupted.

“No one did, though,” he said. “No one but the boy everyone who could’ve done this believed to be a bastard, to be no one.”

“I cannot offer you anything in return,” Jon said softly.

“I said I am not asking for anything,” Jaime smiled, “The Dragon Queen claims she knows what her father was. I doubt it. I lived with him for years, I doubt anyone knows. I also doubt anyone knows what my sister is. But I do.”

“Don’t you love her?” Jon asked, regretting the words as soon as they left him.

“That I cannot tell,” Jaime whispered, “But it doesn’t really matter. There are things that no love can make you forget. I don’t regret leaving Kings Landing, it was nice to see someone rule as they should, to see it could’ve been different. I for one quite liked the idea of you sitting on that darn iron chair, not that you will now. Not if she stays, I presume.”

“No,” Jon whispered. “I’ll merely become her breeding stallion I suppose.”

Jaime Lannister laughed aloud. “There are worse things than settlement with a comely wife. Find a northern lass and make babies.”

Jon shrugged. His face must’ve darkened somewhat, for Jaime’s laughter faded too quickly into the silence. Jon knew he figured it out, and perhaps he realised that Jon knew, for he said nothing. What was there to say about it? Jon spent the whole night sleeplessly wondering what to do about it, and still couldn’t come up with an answer.

“You know the irony of this all?” Jaime asked then and Jon turned toward him. “You have a family now. Families are… curious things. Like your grandfathers. One of them boiled alive the other.”

“Not that your family is any different,” Jon remarked. “Your brother killed your father with a crossbow.”

“Aye, he did,” Jaime said without a sign of regret, “And my father sentenced my brother to death, all the while I was sharing my sister’s bed. Families are curious things.”

“They certainly are,” Jon remarked, more to himself, “It seems to me that we all aim to be seen honourable by strangers while doing the most wile and despicable things to those we ought to love.”

“Not the Starks,” Jaime said softly. “And you’re half a Stark.”

***

“Your grace,” Lord Howland Reed’s voice was soothing like a song, and Daenerys turned. She couldn’t force a smile on her face though, as she looked at the old man. Reed was a short man, by northern standards, and thin too, none of that broad-shouldered stocky build that seemed to be the common trait among these men. His hair was short, too, and almost white, though she could tell that once it had been blonde. His bright grey eyes spoke of wisdom.

“You once told me, Lord Reed,” she began, “that perhaps once the wars are won, both the king and I will find happiness, for you believed we deserved it. Is this what you were talking about? If so, you know nothing about happiness, Lord Reed.”

“I didn’t know, your grace,” Reed said, and for some reason she could believe it, looking into those big grey eyes. “None knew, I would risk saying that perhaps not even Jon himself. He merely predicted it.”

“But you knew who he was,” Dany pointed out. “Neither of you thought it important enough to tell me.”

“It was not mine to tell,” Reed said. “It was his secret. I know your grace suffered a great deal. But do not assume that Jon’s journey here wasn’t just as hard.”

“You are defending him,” Dany hissed.

“I didn’t come to defend him,” Reed countered, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Why have you come, then?”

“To see how you were coping,” Reed said. Why he was so easy to believe, Daenerys couldn’t tell. “I saw to him as well this morning, and I saw it fit to see to you, as well. After all, you are family.”

Dany chuckled at that. Jon Snow was her family. Jon Snow who humiliated her, was her only family. What a cruel blow this was.

“We share blood, it seems,” she said lowly, “But I assure you, we share nothing else. Not anymore.”

Reed didn’t respond. Daenerys watched him for a long moment, before she gestured toward the seat by the fire, and sat down in the other.

“You are a wise man, Lord Reed,” she spoke, “Tell me, what was your plan? For sure you’ve had a plan.”

“Not a plan, your grace,” Reed said, looking straight at her. “I will not lie. I was hoping he’ll stake his claim. I watched the Seven Kingdoms neglected under Robert Baratheon, then fall apart under the bastards that followed him on the throne. I was hoping Jon will take what is rightfully his and restore order. But I was wrong to hope so, I didn’t consider that our land no longer wanted to be part of that sham. Or perhaps I hoped that with Jon, raised in the North, perhaps we would. I was wrong. I met him, and I had to accept that I was wrong.”

“And what about me?”

“Your grace, you came from Essos,” Reed began, “And truly, I’ve not known of your arrival on Dragonstone, until I arrived at Winterfell. Which is a shame, for I’ve been to Essos. I’ve heard the tales they sing of your deeds. And your beauty.”

Daenerys was intrigued, “What business does a Northerner have in Essos?”

“I am a crannogman, your grace,” Reed declared, and she could see a certain pride flicker through his eyes, “Not exactly a Northerner. The Neck has been conquered by the North, albeit it was ages ago.”

“And you accept Northern rule? Sansa Stark as your Queen?”

Reed smiled. “Whatever kind of Queen she’ll be, belonging to the North is better than belonging to the South, for my people. We descend from the First Men, and since we could never maintain neutrality, it is better to side with where our blood ties us.”

Daenerys leaned back in the chair, pondering on his words. “So, you would not turn against Winterfell.”

“No, your grace,” Reed said softly, “I would never. Besides, it is no longer my decision, but my daughter Meera’s. She would never turn on the Starks, and I would never turn against Jon.”

“Jon Snow forsake his claim, Lord Reed,” Daenerys pointed out. “He forsake it for this frozen wasteland. I will never understand that.”

“You will, your grace,” Reed smiled reassuringly, “You will understand once you have that damned iron chair you want so much. It won’t bring you much happiness.”

Daenerys gave him a faint laugh at that. “All my life, I had one goal,” she declared, “The Iron Throne. I assure you, Lord Reed, I will take what is mine, and Jon Snow’s revelation makes little difference. It is mine. I fought for it, I will take it.”

“Oh I am sure you will,” Reed smiled, “I am merely saying that it will not bring you the happiness you seek.”

“You don’t know what I seek,” Daenerys hissed.

“Have you ever wondered, why you wander and never feel you belong?”

“You don’t know how I feel, Lord Reed,” Dany’s voice betrayed a level of uncertainty, yet she spoke with might, “I belong on the Iron Throne. If I never felt that I belong anywhere else, that is because I never sat on the Iron Throne. That is my destiny, my birthright.”

“If I may point out that it is not your birthright,” Reed said softly.

“Is this why you came, Lord Reed?” She stood, a resolved smile on her face. “To convince me to step aside?”

“Could anyone convince you to do anything, your grace,” Reed asked. “No, I came to merely make a suggestion. To put this miserable council behind us, acknowledge Jon as your heir, and his children after him, if what he said is true. For all the goodness in him, he won’t want the Iron Throne anyways, I’ve learned that much by his side. He would never be a threat to you.”

“He won’t be a threat to me, Lord Reed,” She said triumphantly. “He will join me, and wed whom I chose, and you’re right, I will acknowledge his heir. He resolved that problem for me. I thank you for your advice.”

Reed stood, wondering what to make of what he’s heard. “Your grace, Jon belongs in the North.”

She was already walking toward the door, as she spoke, “He does, and yet, he will leave the North, because I order him to.”

“He won’t like that.”

Daenerys turned, anger burning in her eyes.

“Why should I care?” She raised her voice just enough for Reed not to interrupt with an answer, “Did Jon Snow care to tell me the truth? Why should I care what he wants?! I don’t care, Lord Reed.”

“It is hurt speaking through you, your grace,” Reed tried to sooth her growing anger, “Heartache is seldom a wise advisor.”

“I said I don’t care,” she repeated. “Jon Snow will leave the North. I have made that much clear to him. He will obey, and he will wed my choice of a bride, and he will give me an heir. And once he’s done that, Lord Reed, I shall decide whether our shared blood matters to me enough to keep him alive.”

She studied the old man’s face, but whatever he felt, he was a master of hiding it behind that kind smile of his. He bowed to her, and left, and as she closed the door behind her she couldn’t help thinking just how foolish she acted. Of course she would never hurt Jon Snow, she thought, why did she say such vile things, when she didn’t mean them? Why did her anger get the better of her still, why did she feel that she had to twist the knife in the chest of this old man who truly did her no harm? She was not her father. Yet it seemed to her, that she did just as her father would’ve. Perhaps she didn’t burn people – oh but she did. As she walked back to the chair, she wondered if she was sinking into madness. If her humiliation in the hall the day before was bringing out the worst in her. If Jon Snow’s heritage, their shared blood was really the curse she now viewed it to be.

They were the last Targaryens, the last of a bloodline stretching through the ages. Jon Snow was her kin. Was it any other way that she learned, she would be glad, so very glad. All her life she believed herself to be the last, but now there was one more, she wasn’t alone. In any other situation she would embrace his relation. She would ask him to join her cause, she thought. Though she wouldn’t have a cause – she may not have been raised here but she knew that well enough. But Jon would, and they were Targaryens. They would wed. But like Jon said, they would never have an heir if they did.

Aegon married his sisters, to keep pure the blood of the dragon riders. Two sisters. Jon could marry one more, and Dany would be his queen. They would rule together, rule all the seven Kingdoms, she could convince him. He would have an heir. He would have children, and whichever bonded with her children would become the heir. Dany smiled. It was so illogical thinking about such things, she thought, but she could convince him. Yes, she would. Lord Reed was right, she thought, she could find happiness. And yes, she deserved it, and truly, she’s been given something she never thought she could have. She’s been given family.

Was it enough to swallow what happened? She wasn’t sure. But to throw away what she gained, the knowledge that she wasn’t the last, that she wasn’t alone in this world, was it worth holding on to what happened, how she learned of him? She wasn’t so sure either. But she could convince him, she told herself. Yes, the fight against the dead is not over yet, it will resume any day now. She will fight for the living, of that she was sure of. Not for Jon, not for the Iron Throne, but for those who were threatened, who were forced to leave their homes, who were by now crammed into tents on Dragonstone. Dragonstone.

How could she forget about it? Jon’s people were on her land. The urge came to take revenge, of course it did, but she brushed it aside. You will learn from this, Jon Snow said of the Tarlys. She will learn from this as well. She will stand up, and she will fight. The Iron Throne may not be hers by right, but she will take it, and she will prove herself worthy to all these Northern fools. And those of the South. To Jon Snow, and when they defeated the dead, she will set this straight. She will convince him. She had to write to Tyrion on Dragonstone.

***

Winterfell kept buzzing as ever, but Jon could feel this day was different. Not because of the day before, that accursed council that he felt destroyed every bit of whatever honour he had left. Not because he knew now that wherever he belonged he perhaps will never find out, having bound himself to Daenerys Targaryen. Not because she was so angry with him – she must be hating him, Jon thought. And with reason.

“Jon,” Ser Davos appeared at the door, “You’ve sent for me.” Jon allowed a slight smile of relief at seeing the old knight, mixed with the pain of seeing him without the pin on his chest.

“Sansa would do good naming you her Hand, Davos,” Jon remarked as he gestured for the man to sit with him by the fire.

“Aye, she asked,” Davos smiled. “But I could only tell you what I told her. It seems to me that you’ll have more need for me than she does. You’ve done the hard work for her, she only needs to keep it together. And she’s smart. You… well you aren’t as smart as you sometimes think yourself to be.”

Jon laughed aloud. “You have to admit at least that I didn’t go down cheap,” Jon said amidst his laughter.

“No, you didn’t,” Davos finally sat down beside him. “But truly, you risked losing your greatest weapons in this war.”

“I didn’t,” Jon said, more into the fire. “I knew she won’t leave. She understands what this war means, Davos. She knows that it’s not a northern war. I would risk saying that she understands the benefits of containing it on northern soil, and the benefits of fighting in the frontlines. If we win, who will not sing her praises?”

“She’s angry, Jon,” Davos said, “She’s told as much to Howland Reed, she doesn’t value your life.”

Jon merely nodded at that, “Aye, she and I have that in common.”

“Reed calls for a council in the godswood after supper,” Davos said softly.

“Perhaps for all of us to freeze to death,” Jon’s lips turned to a slight grin as he raised an eyebrow glancing at his former Hand. “That would resolve all of our problems. I wonder if the Night King can raise frozen corpses, what do you think?”

“I think you ought to focus,” Davos stated sternly. “This brooding and feeling sorry for yourself is not the way.”

“There’s not much else to focus on,” Jon hissed. “Sansa is queen so I don’t rule anything. Edric is sworn to Sansa thank the Gods, and he’s made his alliance clear today. Actually,” Jon gestured with his pointing finger as if an idea just occurred to him, “That is the solution, Edric could just slice my throat as he intends to and that would resolve the fact that Dany wishes for the same. She’d not have to commit kinslaying to get on that Gods damned iron chair.”

“You can’t blame her for wishing you dead right now,” Davos said. “Have you ever considered her position?”

Jon leaned back on his chair. “Go on Davos, indulge me.”

“Well, for one,” Davos began, “she fought her way here thinking she was the last of her kind. All that she has, it didn’t fall into her lap, Jon. She also lost. She lost Barristan Selmy, murdered in a rebellion against her. She lost her child to a witch.”

“She cannot have children,” Jon pointed out.

“No, but before the witch, she could have. Besides, you’ve made this point very clear in the hall yesterday, for everyone to hear. That was below you.”

“And what was I supposed to do, kneel?” Jon felt frustration arising. Why is he supposed to consider the feelings of someone who puts him into that position, he wondered.

“Perhaps tell her in private who you are.”

“And give it for nothing, tell her I am the rightful heir, so all she fought for was for nothing, and tell her I am the greatest threat to her goal. I may as well order Rhaegal to burn me and save her the hassle.”

Davos took a deep breath, “Perhaps not tell her at all then, ever. It’s not like you have any desire to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Six kingdoms, Davos,” Jon corrected. “I bought independence for the North. For me, it was a worthy trade. She got my claim, and I got what I fought for.”

Davos smiled at him then, “We’re fucked, Jon,” he said, “There’s no way out of it. Perhaps there never was and we only indulged ourselves.”

Jon chuckled. “Your assessment is correct,” he said softly, “but there’s still the dead. Once we defeated them and we’ll only have ourselves to contend with, my kin can figure out how to do that for I surely want no part of it.”

They sat in silence for a while, before Jon spoke. “Jaime Lannister said, families are curious things. One of my grandfathers burning the other. Perhaps my maternal kin and my paternal kin can only kill each other, and I’m an abomination. Perhaps that’s why I never belong anywhere.”

“Or perhaps by the end of this war, you’ll find where you belong. Perhaps you never saw it, that’s why you never belonged anywhere.”

Jon glanced at the old knight. “Aye, perhaps there are miracles in this world.”

***

The weather really wasn’t suitable for such endeavours as this, Jon thought, looking around the shivering group. Howland Reed, not so broken anymore, more resigned to whatever was happening, eagerness in his eyes where Jon saw defeat yesterday, and perhaps, a little desperation. Ser Davos Seaworth, not his Hand anymore, for he was no longer king, yet a true friend as he ever was. Samwell Tarly, reassuringly smiling at him, as always. Another true friend. Arya. Sansa.

“She would make you a bedslave of some southern bitch, perhaps a Martell…” Arya hissed. “The breaker of chains she is.”

“There are no Martells, they are Sands these days,” Davos remarked. Jon chuckled at the irony, a Snow but not a bastard would wed a Sand who was heir to a Martell. What has the world become.

“We will lose what we’ve just won if we don’t accept it,” Jon said softly.

“You’ve already made a decision,” Sansa was furious, and as much as Jon could tell, rightfully so.

“There is no decision to make,” Jon tried to calm her with a hand on her shoulder, “I should’ve seen it coming, but now there is no other way.”

“We should fight her,” Arya countered.

“We would never win,” Jon’s voice was resolute. “We can’t fight the dragons, we don’t have the means, and even if we did and won, there’s still Cersei. If Daenerys defeats Cersei then it’s all the same, we would stand no chance. Even with Jaime Lannister and his force on our side, we would never have a chance. To honour the agreement is the only way.”

“I don’t trust her,” Arya stated firmly. “She may be your kin, but there’s nothing to say she wouldn’t go back on her word.”

“Perhaps we could force her hand somehow,” Reed remarked, more to himself as if he was thinking aloud. “You go South with her, and we figure something. It is better if you don’t know.”

“It is better if you don’t try anything,” Jon corrected.

“She’s angry, Jon” Reed argued, “She doesn’t value your life, she made that clear.”

“Perhaps she’ll see reason,” Jon said, “I’ve seen her see reason before and there’s still a war to fight, here in the North. There’s still time. Perhaps I can change her mind.”

“Because that worked so well until now,” Arya pointed out sarcastically, “How many times did you change her mind of anything?”

“I’ve never tried to,” Jon countered. “But surely, she could see reason. I’ve seen her see reason.”

“Not when she burned my father and brother alive,” Sam said resolutely, his voice showing anger so rare, it made Jon wonder if he’s ever heard it before. “I cannot see the reason she showed burning prisoners who surrendered themselves. Whatever they have done, they surrendered.”

“I am proud of you, Jon,” Arya said then, “I never thought you this clever. But you’re a fool if you don’t see that Lord Reed is right. She’d cut your throat or burn you alive, and she’d come for the North.”

“She may,” Jon said with a smile, “But she has to get in line for that, and I only have one neck.”

No one laughed at what Jon saw as a joke. Sansa stepped closer to him instead. “I’ll never give up on you,” she whispered to him, “You never gave up on me either. You hear me? I will never give up on you.” Jon nodded. This council began to wear heavy, pointless as it was to debate the inevitable. It had as much worth as a parley with the Night King, Jon thought.

“What about me?” Arya asked, “I want to go south too. I want to kill Cersei.”

“Is she on your list?” Sansa asked, and Arya allowed herself a flicker of a smile as she nodded.

“Other Queens could be too, you know.”

“I would advise against that,” Reed spoke, “Who knows what the dragons would do. Jon bonded with one but there’s two more, there’s no telling how they would react to the death of their mother.”

“I will NOT condone kinslaying,” Jon hissed, shutting them up. “Surely, you can’t consider THIS? The North cannot sink THIS low, we won’t be any different than Cersei then.”

“I agree with Jon,” Sansa said firmly, “We shouldn’t do anything such stupid. We must make her believe that she outdid us by claiming Jon.”

“If I may speak,” Sam asked.

“Speak up, Sam,” Jon said kindly, “You don’t need permission.” This council didn’t lead anywhere, a blind man could’ve seen it. If Davos had no solution to offer, none of them could, Jon thought.

“She wants an heir, through Jon,” Sam began, “and you want to secure the North. Give her an heir from the North.”

“She wants that choice for herself,” Lord Reed pointed out, “she will never choose a northern lass for Jon.”

“True, but she cannot make that choice was he already wed,” Sam smiled as he spoke, as he always did, but Jon didn’t like this. The Sam he knew would never scheme like this.

They all fell silent. Jon watched them processing it, refusing to do so himself. It was complete idiocy. They weren’t like this, he thought, they weren’t schemers. Was this really what they had to become? And if yes, what was this compared to what he’s already done? Nothing, he answered himself. It was nothing new, nothing he didn’t expect, painful as it was to realise. They already became like those they so despised.

“We will not orchestrate secret weddings in the godswood, Sam,” Jon said sternly. “Is that what you’d wish for me?”

“Let’s be honest, it’s not a bad idea,” Arya said, her eyes firmly on Sansa. Jon followed her gaze, to study the Queen in the North. Her face was emotionless, yet her eyes betrayed a thousand emotions all at once. He shook his head in his disbelief.

Jon opened an arm to Arya, seeing the defeated look on her face and she wrapped her arms around his waist, as he kissed her forehead. “I am proud of you, too,” Jon whispered, “I never thought you to become an assassin, for one. But we are not like this, we don’t scheme like this.”

“We got this far,” Ser Davos spoke for the first time, and everyone turned to listen. “Remember in Castle Black, we had nothing. We’ve got this far, let us not give up now.”

“Yes, we got this far,” Sansa’s voice was frail, her eyes brimming with tears as she turned to Jon. “We shouldn’t separate now, not like this.”

“We must, Sansa,” Jon’s free hand took hers as his other was resting in Arya’s embrace.

“Nothing lasts,” Sansa whispered, a tear rolling down her face.

“Some things last,” Jon tried to smile, “You’ve given me life and purpose, when all I wanted to do was to ride south and get warm and forget who I was, waiting for death to claim me for good. That purpose hasn’t changed.”

“What was it?” She asked then.

“I promised, Sansa,” Jon said softly, “To protect you, I intend to keep that promise. I broke all the others I’ve made, but this one I’ll always keep.”

She took a deep breath, “These may be our last days together, then.”

“These may be our last days together anyways,” Jon remarked, “For all we know, we may be all dead come tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how it originally went (sans Davos’ scene). Not posting it for anyone, or in response to any comment, but for saving the effort I’ve put in this story until now, in order not to ruin my own work.
> 
> Relationship tags have been removed, I don’t care about showing relationships anymore. Those hardcore shippers are just indecent and some even border despicable. I love the debates, politics and economy and plotting, but not the constant bashing of my storyline and writing and characters and everything I’ve put effort into, like a second job unpaid spending every evening on schedule to write. If that attitude is all someone can bring here then go write their own story and experience the other side of their actions, crude and inconsiderate as they are.
> 
> I’m against limiting freedom of speech and I hate subjecting myself to scrutinise and read all of the comments, so I’ll stop the moderation but I will continue delete comments that are swearing or disrespectful. People should learn to respect others.
> 
> I’ll keep to the two endings because they are mine and I love them, they are already in the making in the story, but I’ll write what I wanted.
> 
> Ps - Chibu I’m reading your messages - I didn’t approve them because I wanted to erase the parody I’ve put up. Your last one covers exactly what I thought of it all.


	32. Winterfell III / IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't bring much new - like the middle of an "8", the path of the show and the path of the story crosses, giving the opportunity to recall these scenes, and the "Knight of the Seven Kingdoms" was an outstanding episode - making what came after that bigger a blow - it recalls old classic GoT episodes in scenes. So I chose some of those scenes. It helps to recall why everyone loved GoT - it helped me. It was a must just like a rewrite of "The Bells" is a must, for different reasons.

The horn sounded, and Jon felt himself freeze. But it didn’t sound again. Friends were returning, he exhaled. How long can they live like this, in constant fear… the last two days were nothing but fear. It burned in the eyes of every soldier who dared to look into his. By now they knew who he was, they didn’t greet him with praises anymore. They greeted him with fear in their eyes as if Jon’s name brought with itself the end of the world.

It was a perfect strategy, Jon thought. If the Night King had any strategy, this was it. Leave the living to themselves, and they will bicker, the alliance that halved the number of the army of the dead could just as well grant it the victory, if given sufficient time to destroy itself. They made their plans, their schemes and their games, and now, when all was done, all the living could do is wait. Wait and boil in fear, of the dead, of what was to come after. Fear was the most powerful weapon, Jon learned that long ago. Fear could break a soldier from inside out, without breaking a bone, without a drop of blood. Fear broke him every waking moment, of not defeating the dead, of the consequences of his actions, of any of his allies turning on his own people. He did this. He could only blame himself for the scene that Winterfell was today, for it not being the eager, assured Winterfell it was a mere four or five days ago.

Daenerys didn’t leave her chamber since the council. Kitchens delivered her supper twice a day, and mainly returned it untouched. Jon didn’t blame her, he struggled to force down every bite that he managed to force down his throat, and it wasn’t much either. He enquired, multiple times, as much as he found the guts to, and Ser Jorah answered, as much as his resentment allowed to – the Queen was coping. Just that, every time Jon asked, she was coping. Will she fight? Will she abandon them? She was coping, whatever that meant, Jon could not get any other answer.

He rushed to the courtyard to see Edd dismounting, greeting Sam with a hug and a smile. Tormund, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, two scouts of the freefolk. Jon sighed of relief, they all returned. The scouting party he sent out two days ago have returned. Jon rushed forth with a grin on his face, only to be ‘attacked’ by Tormund, almost throwing him off his feet.

“You ought to eat,” Tormund said, “How will you fight that fucker if you weigh as much as two flies fucking. I can but push you with a finger and you fall.” They laughed as Jon shook hands with Dondarrion. Men needed a good laugh, he thought, glad for Tormund’s presence.

“And?” he asked.

“They are coming, they are crossing the Wolfswood,” Edd said with a grim face.

“They’ve seen you?”

“Those fuckers see nothing,” Tormund interrupted, “we were able to ride around them, there are no scouts. They are marching straight ahead.” If he was marching with fifty thousand, he’d need no scouts either, Jon thought.

“How long do we have?”

Their faces sunk. “Not a day,” Tormund declared, “Perhaps we see the sun come up tomorrow. Perhaps we fight in the dark.”

***

Sansa rushed through the corridors, wiping off her tears with her sleeve. This was how she spent these past days, sewing, sparring with Arya atop the broken tower, when she could, but mainly just sitting by the fire letting her tears roll down her face. Trying to prevent thoughts from forming, for whenever they did, they reminded her that Jon will leave. That the dead were coming for them all, and if the living win, Jon will leave. That if they don’t win here at Winterfell, her home will burn, and they’ll have to abandon what Jon and she fought for so hard, only to fight again, and again, and again until they win… but when they win, whenever that was, Jon will leave.

She stopped in the door, taking in the scene.

Daenerys Targaryen stood in the middle, and in front of him knelt Theon Greyjoy. Sansa’s heart filled with relief at his sight.

“Your sister,” Daenerys asked.

“She’s free,” Theon nodded with a flicker of a smile, “She only has a few ships and she couldn’t sail them here. She sailed to Dragonstone, to be near when you hit the capitol.”

“Then why are you here?” The Queen asked, and Sansa wondered whether she heard genuine curiosity or accusation in her voice. But Theon looked at her.

“I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa,” he whispered, “If you’ll have me.”

“That is Queen Sansa,” a man corrected, and surprise ran through Theon’s expression. But Sansa raised her hand to silence anything further. She rushed into Theon’s arms and held him, grateful to all the Gods, old and new, for his return. Of course she would have him.

***

Dothraki groups were riding to Wintertown, unsullied marching in close formation, taking small steps forward in union. Groups of Lions and Wolves were arming, marching out to take their positions. Jon wondered if it was too early. They’ll feel the bite of the northern winter this night. But they had to be out there, if the dead come, there’ll be no time to take up positions. Their faces were grim and resolute, as if that was something that united all the living this evening, that grim resoluteness to fight for their lives. Together. Jon hoped it’ll be a fight together.

War council was as pointless as he expected to be. The plans were already made, preparations concluded days ago. There was little to discuss, and they mainly just stared at the map in silence, until Tormund remarked, “We’re all gonna die, but at least we die together.” It made Jon chuckle, as he watched Tormund glance at Brienne. Stubborn freefolk, Jon thought, stubborn and blind. For only a blind man would not see that she had eyes for another.

He turned from the wall, watching as the courtyard filled with pikes. Another layer of defence has been erected, for what it was worth. The fifty-or-so that remained after the battle against Ramsay, from Bear Island, volunteered to defend this small patch of land, see that they weren’t a considerable force to fight in the open. Lyanna Mormont said that. She also vowed to fight. She’s done so just now, as Jon watched her interaction with her uncle Jorah, trying to convince her to stay in the Great Hall or the cellars, ready to leave. Jon couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. The girl’s posture said it all, and even if he didn’t see, Jon could foretell every word she would’ve said. Ser Jorah was trying to convince her, not knowing what Jon knew too well, that it was futile. That little girl was the North itself, Jon thought with a smile. Every piece of goodness, toughness of the North, every bit of pride – just as well as each stubborn stupidity and relentless defiance. The North didn’t know what was good for it, Jon knew. He had more than enough time to ponder on such things these past days. Lyanna Mormont was proud, like the warrior northern lasses of old, but this was not the North of the Age of Heroes, the Kings of Winter, the Builder and the Breaker. Jon sought Reed’s opinion about such thoughts, only yesterday, and Reed for once was speechless, having to admit Jon’s argument to be sound. It wasn’t an argument really – it was merely an admission. There wasn’t anything to do about it.

Soft speech caught his ears, just below the rampart he stood, and he took a step forth to look down.

“When Daenerys takes her throne, there’ll be no place for us here.” The commander of the unsullied said to the girl from the island of Naath. Missandei, Jon reminded himself, slightly feeling guilty at listening.

“I am loyal to the queen. I will fight for her until her enemies are defeated. But when the war is over and she has won,” he looked around them, as if worried whether anyone could hear.

“Do you want to grow old in this place?” He whispered.

“Is there nothing else you want to do? Nothing else you want to see?”

The girl looked down for a moment. “Naath. I’d like to see the beaches again.”

“Then I will take you there,” the boy declared, pride in his voice, and belonging. Jon never heard him speak like this before. This was no slave, he told himself.

“My people are peaceful, we cannot protect ourselves,” the girl said.

“My people are not peaceful. We will protect you.” They stood for a moment looking at each other, before they embraced, and Jon smiled watching their passionate kiss. He was right, they were lovers, but even more so, somehow their stolen interaction gave him something else, something more. There was hope, somewhere in this place, underneath the layers of frozen snow and behind the layers of icy facades on the faces of the living, there was hope. Jon liked that. He needed that. He thanked them for it as he watched the boy depart after his men. Jon hoped almost as much as the girl for his safe return.

The girl left as well, and Jon turned back toward the wall. The sun was now down for good, making him wonder why he stood here for hours, watching as slowly, the armies took up their positions. They were all out of the gate now. How much was here, he tried to remember. Forty-four thousand men. A fair fight, even odds, almost. Something wasn’t right, he could feel it in his bones. Perhaps if he spent the time he had in Winterfell with focusing on this war instead of marriage proposals and bickering, he would have figured it out. There was no point blaming himself, as he looked into the vast blackness surrounding them. They were out there, and they were coming with a new plan. Something Jon couldn’t foretell. For how many times does defeat have to happen before one learns from it?

He heard steps behind him, two pairs of steps.

“And now our watch begins,” Jon chuckled at the wise words of Dolorous Edd as his sworn brother stopped by his side, closely followed by Sam Tarly.

“Sam, if you wanna help in the cellars…” Jon glanced over, “to make sure the evacuation goes…”

“Everyone seems to forget that I was the first man to kill a white walker!” Sam burst out, interrupting him. “I’ve killed Thenns!”

“One Thenn,” Edd corrected sarcastically.

“I saved Gilly more than once, I stole a considerable number of books from the Citadel library, survived the fist of the first men…” Jon chuckled listening. Indeed, Samwell Tarly was a seasoned veteran of all kinds of battles, if one gave it a thought. “You need me out there!” Sam finished his monologue with the declaration.

“Well if that’s what it’s come to, we really are fucked,” Edd remarked.

“Well,” Sam grinned, “Calling you fucked wouldn’t be strictly accurate…”

Jon laughed heartily, at Sam’s witty remark, at Edd’s surprised face staring at Sam.

“Samwell Tarly,” Edd proclaimed, “Slayer of white walkers, lover of ladies. As if we needed any more signs that the world was ending.”

They paused for a long moment, before Sam spoke again. “Think back to where we started… Us, Grenn and Pip…”

“Now it’s just us three,” Jon said lowly.

“The last man left should burn the rest of us,” Edd finished. Neither of them wanted to say anything more, as they just stared into the distance.

***

They were past all their possible topics of conversation. As they assembled by the small bonfire that burned in the courtyard, each eager to seek the warmth of the flames, soothing their minds with whatever ale they found left in the jugs. It’s strange, in the final hours before a battle, how the men forget their differences. Even willing to see the futility of their bickering. They each found a chair, or a barrel to sit on, as they spoke of Bears and Wildfire, of Starks and Lannisters, Dragons and Wolves and Lions… and a Giant. Two giants to be accurate, one killed by ten-year-old Tormund, the other mistaking him for her own babe. Now that made Davos wanting a drink for himself.

But now they sat in silence, collectively staring into the fire, lost in whatever thoughts flickered in their own minds.

“It’s strange,” Jaime remarked to Tormund, “Here we are, having fought the Starks once, ready to defend their castle together.”

“At least we die with honour,” Brienne said, nodding at Jaime.

“I wish my father was here,” Jaime remarked. “I’d love to see his face when he realises that the son he raised chose to stay in Winterfell to die for Ned Stark’s bastard, who actually is Rhaegar’s son and heir. I wish I could tell him. Perhaps soon I’ll have the chance.” He smiled, and Brienne returned the smile.

“I think we might live,” Davos said chuckling, and all joined in.

“How many battles have we survived between us?” Jaime said laughing. “Ser Davos Seaworth, survivor of both the Blackwater and the Battle of the Bastards.”

“All without a shred of combatability,” Davos added with a slight grin

“Ser Jaime Lannister, favoured hero of the siege of Pike,” Brienne joined in.

“Favoured loser of the battle in Whispering Wood,” Jaime pointed out, the previous laughter still on his face, as he stood to fill his cup.

“And Tormund Giantsbane,” Davos nodded toward the man he named, “Survived the first battle for the Wall.”

“And Hardhome.” Davos added, and all sounds of laughter died out for a moment. They all knew the name, of what it meant.

“Ser Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime said, “Defeated the Hound in single combat.” As he turned to see Brienne’s face.

“Pardon me, Lady Brienne.”

“She’s not a Ser?” Tormund asked surprised. “You are not a knight?”

“Women can’t be knights,” Brienne explained.

“Why not?”

“Tradition.”

“Fuck tradition.” Jaime laughed at Tormund’s approach to these matters. Perhaps they all should fuck all kinds of traditions. They’d be happier for it, if they survived this war.

“I didn’t really want to be a knight,” Brienne said resolutely, her eyes falling on the fire.

“Jon should’ve knighted you before he gave up being king,” Tormund said then, “he needs a fucking crown again to knight you.”

“You don’t need a king,” Jaime pointed out the error, “Any knight can make another knight.”

He’s put down his cup and draw his sword, “I’ll prove it.” He stepped out to the open space of the courtyard beside them.

“Kneel, Lady Brienne,” he declared, his sword ceremoniously swung in the air before its edge landed on the ground pointing where he wanted her.

Brienne shrugged as all eyes fell on her. Men stopped on the ramparts, wondering what the highborn were playing at now.

“Do you want to be a knight or not,” Jaime asked, and she looked up at him again, her gaze clearly portraying all the fears she must’ve ever felt, fears of being the laughing stock of others. “Kneel,” Jaime repeated, softer this time.

Finally, she stood, and walked over. She lowered herself on one knee, and Davos stood to watch. Hope sat on her face, and wonder, like the little girl she once was, at seeing the sword slowly lifted in front of her.

Jaime touched her right shoulder with the blade, “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”

He moved the sword over her head to her left shoulder, “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just,” he proclaimed.

His sword, the sword forged from ages old Valyrian steel, of Ice, the Stark sword since before the Age of Heroes began, returned to her right shoulder, “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

The sword fell slowly off her shoulder as she looked on, in her eyes the realisation that this was real. This was no mockery, none of it. Her eyes met Jaime’s.

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime declared, “A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She rose, for a moment holding Jaime’s gaze, his eyes full of respect, and perhaps hope, for her to make better of the responsibility he’s placed on her shoulders, and hers, brimming with tears, grateful for the moment she waited for all her life.

Tormund’s eager clapping of his hands broke the moment, and the others joined in as well. Soon the whole of the yard, dozens of men clapped their hands and shouted their praises at Ser Brienne, knight of the Seven Kingdoms. As they returned to their seats, Brienne’s face glowing like never before.

***

She must’ve been beautiful, Jon thought, as she placed the feather in her reaching hand. He stood here for a while now, studying the face like he did many times before, trying to understand the woman that was his mother.

“Who is that?”

“Lyanna Stark.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her eyes firmly on him, studying him.

“My brother Rhaegar,” she said softly, “Everyone told me he was decent and kind, he liked to sing and give money to poor children. And they kept chanting that he raped her.”

“He didn’t.” Jon didn’t look at her. He wondered if he felt invaded by her presence, or glad that she was there.

“No, he didn’t,” she said, “He couldn’t have sired a son as good as you, if he did. He just could not have.”

Jon chuckled. “I am not nearly good,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you.”

“No,” she locked a hand in his arm and he turned toward her, “No, you shouldn’t have. Again, you knew when to speak and when to stay silent. Like on Dragonstone. I wouldn’t have believed you if you told me. I wouldn’t have stayed.”

“So you will fight with us,” Jon asked, his eyes locked on hers.

“I gave you my word,” she whispered, “I said we will defeat them, together. We will defeat them, all our enemies.”

“And what about afterwards,” Jon asked. “We defeat the dead. We destroy Cersei. What comes after?”

“You once said it is bad omen to plan the future before a fight,” she smiled.

Jon sighed, “Aye, it is,” his eyes were almost begging her. “But I need to know. I need to know my family is safe. ALL my family. I mean not to lose a single one more of my family, Dany.”

“Good,” she declared, “For I am your family, too.”

He smiled, finally. This is what he said just now, did he not?

“I am not sure you can break the circle that ruled over the Seven Kingdoms,” he said then, “But this is a circle you can break. Only you can.”

She sighed. “It is not mine to break. Not only mine. It is ours.”

***

“We better get some rest,” Jaime said. Their silence began to wear heavy.

“And we are out of ale,” Davos added, walking back to his seat.

“How about a song?” Tormund asked, “isn’t that what you southern twats do when not killing each other? Sing and play fight with wooden sticks?”

They looked around at each other, “Ser Davos,” Jaime asked.

“You would pray for a quick death,” Davos remarked with a grin.

“Ser Brienne,” but she just shook her head.

Pod leaned back on his chair. The young squire whom no one ever noticed, who hardly ever spoke, took a deep breath. As he began to sing, it seemed that the whole castle grew silent, as if time itself stopped to give them all a moment of peace, the winds stopped blowing and the men in the courtyard and on the walls stopped and stood silently, as if they never heard a song before. As if it was the last song they would ever hear.

_High in the halls of the Kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts_

_The ones she had lost and the ones she had fought and the ones who had loved her the most_

_The ones who’d been gone for so very long, she couldn’t remember their names_

_They spun her around on the cold damp stone, spun away all her sorrow and pain_

_They danced through the day and into the night through the snow that swept through the hall_

_From winter to summer and winter again, till the walls would crumble and fall_

_And she never wanted to leave, she never wanted to leave, she never wanted to leave_

_She never wanted to leave._

 

 


	33. Winterfell III / X.

Three blasts of a horn. Jon’s eyes opened swiftly, he jumped from his chair where he must’ve dozed off late last night. They are here.

He couldn’t figure if it was night or day, darkness ruled outside. He really wouldn’t want to fight them in the night, he thought, as began the tedious job of lacing up his coat. Davos and Reed both rushed into the room, silently helping, there was nothing to discuss really. Reed wore pieces of armour, Jon noted to himself gladly, and even Davos ditched the long robe he favoured otherwise for a long coat and breeches. They fixed his cuirass and gauntlets and he was ready, his sword on his side. He rushed out of the room, through the corridors and the two men behind him. Right until he opened the door to the outside.

This storm was something else. He figured in an instance that the horn sounded because of the storm – not because there were any dead men in sight. There was nothing in sight. He couldn’t see as far as the next step he was to take, snow blown in the wind, and ice, he could feel it hit his cheeks. This was it then, he thought. This was the new plan, for sure the dragons won’t be able to fly in this storm. If they can’t see the dead, they cannot execute their plan. But if so, Jon thought, the dead cannot see them either. Something for something. He had to figure out how to fight in the storm, and he had to do it quickly.

He took the steps up to the rampart two at a time, merely from memory. As soon as he arrived he bumped into someone – lion on the shoulder, golden lion. Jaime Lannister.

“Cannot see shit, Jon,” he heard next to him, Edd’s voice.

“Aye, I can see that,” he answered. “He means to ground the dragons I suppose.” It was strange, so strange, the wind blew yet there was no sound, storm clouds darkened the sky, blocking out whatever pale sunlight would’ve otherwise signalled the day. That’s why Jon couldn’t decide what hour it was.

“Perhaps he will lift the storm, like at the wall,” Jaime Lannister said.

“He must be stupid to do that,” Jon countered, “And he isn’t stupid. No, I think there’s something else with this storm.”

“What?”

“That I don’t know,” Jon said, trying to make out anything, any landmark in the distance, “But it’s nothing good for us, I’m sure of it.”

Then they heard it – a soft rumbling noise, hissing. Jon tried to figure what it could be while the snow slowed in the wind, and slowly, visibility began to return. He could see the men below the wall scrambling to take up formation as the horn sounded once more. The noise however didn’t cease.

Daenerys approached on the rampart, Sansa and Arya on the steps followed by Sam.

“What’s this noise?” Arya asked Jon, but Jon could only shake his head. Then he looked behind his sister and he noticed.

“You’ve burned the bodies in the crypts,” he glanced at Sansa, relieved at her nodding. The old oak door to the crypts was shaking, they all could see it now.

“Then what is it trying to get out of there,” Daenerys asked.

“Burned the bodies, not those that were already returned to the earth,” Reed thought aloud, “That, is the remains of the Starks of old, nothing more than dirt, rumbling to break free. I cannot reason it otherwise. There is nothing else there, unless he can raise stone statues now.”

“He needs the heads,” Jon reasoned, “his magic needs the heads of the bodies, to somehow occupy them…”

“I know it makes no sense,” Reed said, “But there’s nothing down there with a head, Jon.” For a short moment Jon thought of his brother Rickon. Thank goodness Sansa burned the bodies, he’d not want to see his little brother come back to life.

“I didn’t think,” Sansa began, but Jon’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“I wouldn’t have thought either,” Jon said softly, “But it doesn’t matter. We only need to barricade the entrance, we have no business there.”

“It looks to me that we already foiled one of his plans,” Davos looked out in the distance, and they all turned.

“And he did the same with ours,” Daenerys added, “We can’t fly in this storm.” Jon could only nod. Glancing at Jaime Lannister, he could see that Jaime was deep in thought. Likely about the same – how to handle this. How to fight and defend the trenches in the storm.

“Perhaps they can land on the wall and breathe fire on them,” Jaime said then. “When they are close enough, after the first row retreats.”

Jon wondered about that. A dragon is a great weapon, the greatest, if it’s moving in the sky breathing fire. It’s invincible, scales shielding its body from any attack. But if it’s constant, does that make it less invincible? He couldn’t tell. He knew nothing about dragons, he realised.

The snow started to settle, only mist flew in the silent wind now. Visibility began to increase, Jon could see their first trench clearly. It seemed as if they repelled the first attack, simply by doing nothing. The men stood – shivered – in formation, waiting for whatever was coming next.

They didn’t have to wait long. Jon could hear the Unsullied beating the ground in rhythm. The drums of the Wolves joined in, and for a few moments it felt like they were invincible. But Jon knew better, even though the call to battle brought confidence into the eyes of those who dared to look back and up on the wall, into his eyes, he could see that, he couldn’t help but feel that they were lost. He couldn’t tell how, but he knew it as if it already happened.

The dragons landed on the towers. It amazed him how carefully they managed to grip the stone, slowly settling. “I rather you didn’t ride a dragon today,” he turned to Dany.

“That is how I fight,” she said sternly.

“I know,” Jon smiled faintly as he spoke, “But I rather you stayed on the ground. Remember what I said, not a single one more. They’ll be targets today.”

“All the more reason to lead them,” she spoke, but never got to finish the sentence. They heard a scream from below and turned.

Bears, shadowcats were running towards them.

“Light the trench!” Jon shouted, and Davos waived his torch, but those in the front had no chance of seeing it. Suddenly, the dragons took off, flying around the trench breathing fire, alighting the wooden stakes and pitch, just as the main row of dead animals reached it. Still, many got through, spears and arrows took to the sky until all of them were down, and men began to alight the second trench in their dread. This was not good.

“We just lost a line of defence,” Jon thought aloud looking at Jaime, who nodded. They all watched as the fire encircled Winterfell, the armies of the living returning to their formations, taking up positions to defend. Jon blew his horn, long, short, then another long blast. Retreat. It was the sign for the knights of the Vale and the Dothraki to alight Wintertown and retreat to Winterfell. This was a major blow, Jon reminded himself. They could’ve cut down thousands in that attack, now their momentum has been taken by fear itself.

The gate opened, and they all turned to watch as riders galloped past the stakes in the courtyard, making their way to the cellars. That worked like clockwork, at the least, and Jon hoped that the tunnel was still as safe as they left it a few days ago. Else it seemed to him they’ll lose much more than a line of defence here.

The dragons still circled in the sky. Jon meant to ask Daenerys to recall them when he saw the sky darken.

“What’s that?” Sansa asked and they all looked.

“Stormcould,” Davos wondered, “To blind the dragons.”

“That is not a stormcloud,” Reed pointed out. Jon narrowed his eyes to see clearer. It was a cloud of something else, something far deadlier.

“Take cover!” He shouted, then blew his horn. Men below drew swords, men on the walls nocked their arrows and drew them, in union, as if they were always a single army – freefolk and northmen, lions and wolves and unsullied all prepared for an attack.

Jon could hear Sansa’s scream as the cloud came close enough to be seen for what it was. Birds, thousands of birds, ravens and eagles and the like, thousands of pairs of icy blue eyes approached them rapidly. Rhaegal was circling back above Winterfell, while Drogon protectively flapped his wings above their group, but Viserion was just about to dive and breathe fire on the remainder of the dead animals below, when the cloud of birds reached him.

Jon glanced at Dany, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes full of dread. The dragon tried to break free from the attack, yet there was too many, chipping away at his wings, at his body, at his eyes. It shrieked as it began to make for up high, an eagle on its face landing clearly visible from the wall. Suddenly Viserion’s path changed toward the ground, as if he was falling. His eyes were closed, protecting himself, as he fell onto the ground. The animals that were still rushing forth immediately began their attack. Rhaegal flew above encircling them with fire.

“Get out of there,” Jon said aloud, and for a moment Rhaegal looked their way, just as the birds began an attack on him. He swiftly turned toward the sky, shaking off the ravens that returned to the grounded dragon, shrieking, breathing fire around it.

Jon wondered if his heart stopped beating at some point, if his lungs stopped taking in any air, if the others felt the same. He reached out and roughly pulled Daenerys close, to hold her, for he knew what was coming. He knew it as soon as the riders appeared.

This was a hunt. This wasn’t for Winterfell, it wasn’t a hunt for a living. This was a hunt for a dragon. The white walkers dismounted, spear in hand, encircling Viserion, easily walking through Rhaegal’s fire around his fallen brother. Viserion’s wings were full of holes now, he couldn’t have taken flight again, all he could do is breath fire. He tried, albeit his eyes closed, unable to direct his attack. Jon wondered if he ever saw anything this painful.

“Do something,” Arya shouted, “Jon do something!” But he could do nothing, he knew. An ice spear flew toward the dragon, merely bouncing off its scales. Then another. Drogon shrieked above their group, yet he remained, watching what was unfolding in the distance, dutifully guarding his mother. Sacrificing his brother.

Then Jon saw him. The Night King himself, dismounting his horse, took a spear from a walker, and walked around Viserion. The dragon was no longer breathing fire, perhaps he realised the futility of it, perhaps he knew that the end was near. Jon held Daenerys close in front of him, “Turn around,” he said softly, “Don’t watch.”

“I will watch,” he could hear her shaking voice, and his arms wrapped around her.

The Night King looked up then, straight towards them. He had the same smugness on his face that Jon recognised from the moment before he blew the horn of Joramun. The moment they lost. They were losing again.

Aim. Release. Hit.

The spear firmly pierced into the dragon’s skull through its right eye. Viserion didn’t shriek, didn’t move, it was instant. He fell onto the ground, lifeless.

“Burn it,” Jon said to Dany, but he could feel that she was lost. “Burn it! Dany, order Drogon to burn it!”

Drogon didn’t move above them, as they watched a walker removing the spear, covered in black dragonblood now, and threw it aside. The Night King slowly walked to the dead dragon and knelt.

Suddenly Rhaegal dived in, breathing dragonfire around his fallen brother before he disappeared in the sky.

“I didn’t,” Daenerys said shocked through her tears.

“No, I did.” She looked behind, straight into his eyes.

“I will not have another one of them killed,” she hissed.

“And I don’t want to fight a dead dragon,” Jon answered softly, and her face turned into shock. She turned back swiftly to watch, just as the Night King raised a hand on Viserion’s nozzle. Drogon shrieked above them, as he left towards the scene, breathing a line of fire toward the dead body of his brother, while Rhaegal dove down to do the same.

Suddenly Viserion turned, opened his jaws, blue fire meeting Drogon’s flames in the air. The black dragon turned to circle back and Viserion raised his head, attacking Rhaegar just flying past above him. A dead dragon rose, taking its first moves climbing to its feet, wings flapping as if being tested. Jon held up Dany as he felt her knees buckle under her, felt her fall. Rhaegar disappeared in the sky.

Jon turned Dany toward him. “Listen to me,” he said, holding her shoulders, “Take the dragons to the river, order them to leave now.”

She just shook her head, still in shock from what she’s witnessed.

“We cannot fight that by ourselves,” Jaime Lannister said.

“Ser Jaime is right, Jon,” Reed added, “If you take the two dragons we may as well evacuate now and pray we make it. You have to kill that!” He pointed toward the dead dragon in the distance.

“I have to ride Drogon,” Dany murmured, “He’s much better when I ride him, I have to be with him.”

Jon shook his head, but she continued. “And you have to ride Rhaegal.”

“No, I am the commander, I can’t…” Jon began, but the look in her eyes silenced him.

“He stands no chance, if he has no guidance,” she said then, almost begging him. “You have to!”

Jon looked around them, their stunned faces, hoping to gain some guidance, as well as some conviction in himself. He never rode a dragon into battle, he only rode a dragon once. His gaze fell back on the dead dragon, now firmly on its feet, wings lowered.

He was climbing atop – the Night King was climbing atop Viserion.

“You’re a dragon,” Reed said, glancing back at the scene with dread, “Jon, be a dragon.”

Jon looked at Sansa who nodded, at Dany who’s eyes were raging and begging him at once, at Jaime Lannister. “Ser you know the plan,” Jon declared, “You have command, save the Queen in the North.” He glanced once more in the distance, a dead dragon flapping its wings to take flight, and birds, more birds coming towards the castle, “Make sure to take cover from those,” he said, pressing his horn into Jaime’s hand, before he turned and rushed down the stairs, Daenerys closely following him.

***

The dragons landed just below the wall on the western side, safely within the perimeter of the burning first trench. Here there were no armies, merely the men on the walls who watched as Dany and Jon mounted the two dragons and took to the sky, the sounds of a battle unfolding louder each moment in the background. Jon didn’t know what to expect. He should’ve left his sword, he thought, good Valyrian steel would be useful on the ground, much more than by his side in the sky where he cannot swing it at anything. But he had a greater weapon now. His mind recalled the painful shrieks of a dragon, surely knowing he was lost, and he felt his blood boil. You’re a dragon, he reminded himself. Be a dragon.

They circled around Winterfell and Jon could feel the familiar excitement that he always felt before drawing his sword. As they emerged, they could see the battle had began in earnest – endless amounts of dead men were rushing forth, Grey Worm just sounding retreat beyond the walls. Jon hated sieges, he concluded, the inevitable defeat of having to hold your position. He hated them even more now, as he recognised a dragon flying straight toward him. A dead dragon.

Viserion was burning the living. He was burning those on the walls and those lined up between the trenches, Jon could tell from the piles of bodies. They had to burn their dead, he hoped Dany would recognise as well. But first, they had to kill a dead dragon. How do you kill a dead dragon?

He had no time to ponder on it much, as Viserion opened its mouth and he could see the blue fireball forming. He ducked in union with Rhaegal turning to side to miss the attack. It was as if his dragon read his mind, as he flew past his dead brother he turned and began to breathe fire upon Viserion. Drogon arrived on the other side, his enormous claws grabbing the neck of the dead dragon. For a moment Jon believed it’ll be this easy, but Viserion kicked at Drogon, twisting its body so unnaturally that was he still living, it surely would’ve broken its neck. Drogon fell back in the air, losing his balance, and Viserion breathed blue fire toward the escaping black dragon. No, this won’t be easy, Jon concluded, just as Rhaegal turned to follow Viserion high into the clouds, but Jon had a better idea.

If they fought up high, they could not defend Winterfell. IF they defended Winterfell, the Night King will surely come down from the clouds anyways. They’ll have time to defeat him once the living were safely in the tunnel… for there was no doubt now that Winterfell will be lost, it was only a matter of time. Jon hoped his thought process was clear and smiled to himself as Rhaegal turned to dive. In the distance he could make out Drogon before he disappeared in the clouds, hoping Dany saw him and was following.

He flew past above the dead, Rhaegal breathing fire on them, and as he turned he saw that Drogon was indeed following. He turned and began to burn the corridor between the trenches, the piles of their own dead, before they could ever be raised again. He saw Grey Worm collapsing the wooden palisade, but there were still many trapped between the two burning trenches, chased by the dead. Then he saw why. Mammoths, enormous dead beasts were nearing the trenches just in front of the gate. The gate had to be closed, Jon knew. He turned to burn the beasts, just when the birds attacked him. He had no choice but to rise higher, into the clouds.

But as he did, he couldn’t see anymore, he couldn’t see the coming attack. He almost fell off Rhaegal’s back as dead claws clung to them. He could only watch as the dead beast bit into Rhaegal’s neck and tore an enormous peace of skin and scales. Rhaegal shrieked, and for a moment Jon thought he was lost. But then he thought of the trick he saw. They couldn’t repeat it, he was certain, almost as certain as the fact that he would fall off, but he instructed Rhaegal to still execute the turn, hoping he’ll be able to hold on, that he won’t be impaled on dragonscales during the manoeuvre.

It was so sudden, he barely felt himself moving from where he sat, as the dragon rolled, and then rolled again. It couldn’t be said about the contents of his stomach, whatever was left there, as he turned aside and gave up all of it. They were free, the dead dragon gone in the clouds. They had to dive, Jon knew, they may not be able to withstand a second attack. Just then, the second attack came.

Blue fire emerged right in front of him and he ducked, as Rhaegal rose, the scales on his body withholding the fire from Jon. He circled around and attacked with his own flames, and once more the blue and red flames mingled in the air, as if they’ve both hit an enormous unseen wall between them.

Suddenly Drogon appeared, his line of fire firmly on the Night King. Viserion had to break his attack, and the dead dragon shot up to the sky. For a moment Jon and Dany took in the victory, nodding toward each other. He had to add this to the number of times Dany saved his life, Jon knew.

They dove once more. The scene horrified Jon. The dead were attempting to scale the walls of Winterfell, just as he flew past he could see Arya fighting, and Davos. He looked back but couldn’t see Sansa with them. His heart clenched at the thought… Then as he turned he saw the dead giant storming into the courtyard, brushing little Lyanna Mormont aside with his hand. Jon wanted to burn the giant, but as he neared to get close enough not to burn the yard, he saw Lyanna Mormont charge. Dear Gods, Jon began to pray as the beast took the little girl in his hand, and Jon knew it was squeezing the life out of her, he could see on her face that she knew as well… then she screamed, dragonglass dagger in her hand, he charged straight into the giant’s eye just as Jon got close enough. The giant fell, and Lyanna Mormont fell to her death with it. Jon felt the tears rolling down his cheeks.

He dried them with his sleeve, there was no time for this. He came in low, very low, “Duck!” he shouted to a stunned Jaime Lannister and the living ducked, some jumped off the wall onto the roofs of tents, as Rhaegal burned the dead above them.

Those Gods damned birds returned just as he flew past the wall. Some of them got caught in the fire, unable to maneuver out of the way in time, but much more began to attack and chip away at Rhaegal’s wings once more. Jon had to rise again, hoping this time there’ll be no attack in the clouds.

There was none, which only made him wonder where Viserion could be. He didn’t have to wonder long enough – as he left the clouds he could see the dead dragon battling Drogon above the battlefield, full of wights. To his left, the castle was being overrun. He heard the horn – three long blasts. Jaime Lannister has finally ordered the evacuation of Winterfell. He merely registered it, as Rhaegal’s claws reached Viserion, grabbing and pulling a wing. Jon could hear the crack of bones, yet the dragon remained in the air, his wing somewhat limp. It bit at Rhaegal and Jon had to back off to protect Rhaegal’s neck from another wound, allowing Viserion to rise into the clouds, his left wing flapping out of rhythm. Whatever held him up, Jon thought, it surely wasn’t a dragon’s ability to fly.

Dany turned to burn the battlefield between the trenches, to deprive the Night King of new soldiers, as the horn sounded again. Jon circled around Winterfell. He was horrified. Two of the towers were merely rubble, the courtyard burned with blue fire. Dead were still fighting the living, the living trying to make it to the cellars. Jon knew, the doors will be shot and barricaded, the iron gate to the tunnel will be closed soon. Whoever can’t make it in time will have to be left behind. They had to make it. He turned to burn the wights he could see in the castle.

A sudden thought came to him. It wasn’t even a thought, not one of his own – it sounded so familiar like… Bran. Shut up you fool, Jon thought in response, hoping he only imagined the interaction, yet he turned to carry out the task it gave him: burn the godswood.

There were walkers here, as if they were grouping, as if they were looking for something. Rhaegal’s fire alit the old heart tree, all the weirwood trees surrounding it, yet it seemed the walkers were immune. Jon turned to circle around and complete the task, glancing to his right to see Dany busy with burning their dead. In the distance he noticed something else.

The battle was over. The dead no longer rushed to scale the walls. Jon wondered why, feared that they knew, that they found the exit of the tunnel. But they only stood in the distance and watched. They were waiting, Jon knew, but what for? Another trick? A command? Where was the Night King?

He had no time to wonder about it, as he turned toward the godswood once more to burn the remaining trees, he saw the walkers simply walk out. Well that’s convenient, Jon thought, as Rhaegal once more attempted to burn them, and again it was futile. Then he saw.

A walker at the oak door that led down to the crypt. He was defenceless against this, he knew. The walker wouldn’t burn, that much was clear, but the door would. He could perhaps jump off and kill it, but then it unlocked the door.

A sandstorm emerged. No, not a sandstorm. A storm of human ash. Jon couldn’t fathom it. Surely there was no mindfulness in ash, there was nothing to take over. The Night King requires the head of a body to take it over, for its magic to control it. How did it control the ash itself? Was it even ash?

But there was no time to figure out, as the storm choked the living, and Jon could see as Jaime Lannister slammed the door to the cellars shot in front of himself and turned. Rhaegal breathed fire in front of Jaime and the handful of people with him, holding their own against both the dead and the living, while the storm raged. They were protecting the evacuation, Jon knew. He could see Beric Dondarrion among them, he could see Thoros of Myr. As he turned toward the sky to execute one of those manoeuvres he learned now with Rhaegal, to circle up and down, he saw as the storm reached the door. He wished he didn’t.

Rhaegal breathed fire into the storm, as it rose higher and higher, the ash burning Jon’s throat now, he had to rise. When he could dive once more, he no longer saw them. The door was firmly shot.

He turned to burn their dead, his eyes tearing from the ash attack. For a while they were circling around, burning their dead. It seemed the Night King gave up on raising them, or learned the drill and didn’t even think of recruiting them, but Jon wanted to be certain. The army of the dead began to walk away, literally. They took their birds, their bears and mammoths and shadowcats and began a slow walk south of Winterfell. That assured Jon. If they knew, they’d be much more in a hurry. It only occurred to him now, just how little their numbers were. Fifty thousand? No. If there was twenty thousand to begin with, Jon may have overestimated them. Something was wrong, very wrong.

He turned toward the keep with a heavy heart, preparing himself to see men he knew, men he loved. He found Maester Wolkan on the rampart, dragonglass sword in his hand. The poor man, never held a sword in his hands before. Jon burned his body. Little Lyanna Mormont was still within the grasp of the dead giant, and Jon burned them both, apologising to the Lady of Bear Island for her ashes becoming one with the beast’s that ended her short life. Too short. Lord Hornwood was the next he found among the many of his dead whose names he never learned, just under the wall, as he circled. And finally, he swallowed his fear and turned toward the oak door of the cellars. Coming in from the side, hoping not to burn the door itself, he saw Thoros of Myr and Beric himself, laying lifelessly on the ground, along with the young Waynwood that inherited command from Bronze Royce. What the boy was doing still in the castle, Jon couldn’t tell, but more importantly, he didn’t see the gold lion. He sighed of relief as Rhaegal breathed fire on the dead.

He shot to the sky, wondering about the task he completed. It was the hardest, he realised, staying behind to burn the dead. Dany has done it multiple times before. As Jon neared Drogon, his eyes met hers, a new-found respect filling his mind for the Queen. He only did this once but hoped he would never ever have to do it again. A vain flicker of hope, that was.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadcount:  
> \- VISERION - RIP  
> \- LYANNA MORMONT - RIP  
> \- BERIC DONDARRION - RIP  
> \- THOROS OF MYR - RIP  
> \- MAESTER WOLKAN - RIP  
> (to be continued....)
> 
> Author: I sat on this because I couldn't figure the "how-to". Until I decided it needs a different perspective because in my eyes, Miguel Sapochnik is a genius. I could've tried to write an extremely descriptive something on the ground and would've struggled because I LOVE Sapochnik's imagery (and I could actually see the battle on screen hahah)  
> So I decided to give it a different perspective - fully accepting that I made Jon almost as useless as he was in "canon" (ooooopsie) but it was fun to write dragon-fight. Also the dragon-hunt, I needed the ice dragon for one particular scene that's coming and I didn't want it to be so futile as it was in "canon". I wanted it to be an essential element of the battleplan by NK, and I hope I did it justice.  
> As for the crypt parts - that's a bit of cheeky me poking fun at D&D, and partially a scare. I know it's silly because NK shouldn't be able to command ashes in "canon". I've got a half formulated idea to explain how, drawing on a fan theory. But mainly, it's to rub under the nose of D&D the whole crypt futility in "canon", the safest place... mehhhh.  
> And now since it's only 7PM, I'll attempt to complete the next chapter because honestly, that's all I could think of while writing this one!


	34. White Knife / White Harbor

“Dany…” Jon reached out for her hand, he rushed to her as soon as they landed but she didn’t even look at him so now he was trying to reach her, to shake her from the daze she seemed to be in. Finally, she looked at him as he grabbed her arm. Jon was stunned by the sheer pain in her eyes.

“Dany I am so sorry…” He whispered as he wiped off the tear that rolled on her cheek with a thumb.

“The dragons are my children, do you understand?” She asked, “They are the only children I will ever have…”

Jon cupped her face in his palms. “Now he has one of them, he killed one of them…” she continued, tears running on her face freely. “I felt it, Jon I felt it! The sheer dread he felt, when he knew he cannot escape, I felt it and then he was gone, and he bound him to his will…” her voice diminished as Jon pulled her close to his chest, holding her firmly.

“There is no one here,” he whispered, “You can cry here. It’s just me.”

After a long moment, she gave in, burying her head into his embrace and cried, sobbed loudly. It didn’t take long, she felt how she’s never cried like this before, it was so alien. But at the same time, it brought such a relief. And peace, it brought peace, and resolution. She looked up, wiping her face with her sleeve as she stepped back.

“Promise me,” she said, her voice still frail, “Promise me we will free Viserion from that monster. And we will kill him. We will kill the night king and all his beasts and dead men. We’ll burn them all.”

“We will burn them all,” Jon said nodding, “though walkers don’t burn, and he doesn’t burn, but we will find a way and we will kill them all. We will free Viserion, I promise you.”

“Good,” she said, turning back toward the makeshift camp nearby. They walked silently for a few moments, before she spoke again.

“This, what I did just now…”

“Remains between us,” Jon finished, and she glanced at him. “You’ve nothing to worry about that.”

She nodded. Soon they reached the camp. Jon felt anxiety rising, eagerness to see who made it. The first to appear was Edric however, possibly the man Jon least wanted to see. His face was a mystery.

“I’ve set a double parameter of guards and watch, half mile out,” he said, and Jon nodded. “And I’ve done the counting.” That stopped Jon.

“How many?”

Edric looked down for a moment and swallowed. “There are still people emerging, but we know of over two thousand unsullied lost. Almost all of Hornwood’s men, they were too far out the parameter and I’m told the dragon burned them. Wolves and Lions lost at least two thousand each, and the northmen… there is almost none from Bear Island, Glover’s number has been halved, the Stark host has been halved, there are barely two hundred Umbers. The freefolk are around a thousand. We are missing several commanders, Beric Dondarrion and the priest, Hornwood and the lad who took over from Royce, the Lannister and the Giantsbane.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. Tormund too. And Jaime Lannister.

“Sam? Edd? My sisters?”

“All safe in the command tent.” Jon’s eyes shut to take it in, they were safe.

“Set the men to watch in pairs, one to watch, one to sleep,” he ordered, and Edric nodded, then limped away. Jon wondered what was going on in the man’s mind. From the point of not being able to fight, through earning the cowardly responsibility of leading an evacuation, to the point of having to report major losses. It truly wasn’t any kind of revenge, on the opposite. Was he ordered to, Edric would’ve fought valiantly, and would’ve died, because the man could barely walk. This was for his protection, but Jon knew, Edric would likely not see it that way. Not from him.

They reached the tent spoken of, and entered. All stood, and Sansa jumped into Jon’s arms, then Arya. Both were covered in dirt mixed with blood, so was Sam Tarly and Dolorous Edd. The Hound, Grey Worm, Missandei and Jorah Mormont completed the list of those in attendance.

“We’ve lost around ten thousand,” Jon said, clearing his voice.

“We must’ve killed as many,” Arya said.

“Where’s Davos, Reed?” Jon only realised now, he was missing his two friends from the tent.

“Reed has, well he has a nasty cut,” Sansa said, “Brienne and Davos took him to the maester of the Umbers. I think we lost Wolkan, I saw him grab a sword on the rampart.”

“Aye, he’s dead, I burned his body,” Jon admitted, “So are Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Hornwood, Waynwood, and…” he swallowed, “Lyanna Mormont. I am sorry, Ser Jorah.”

“She should’ve listened….” Jorah murmured, as Daenerys rushed to him. Little Lyanna may not have accepted Ser Jorah’s return, but the old knight grew proud of the girl very quickly, and rightfully so.

“I saw it,” Jon said lowly then, and Jorah looked up. “She killed a fucking giant, Ser. I saw her charge at it, and it grabbed her in his hand and she killed it. Dragonglass in the eye.”

Jorah smiled, after wiping his eyes with his fingers, trying to keep the brimming tears at bay. “That is so… her.”

“Aye, it was,” Jon whispered, “She would’ve fought and killed them all by herself if she had a chance to.” Jon’s eyes settled on Sansa. Her blue eyes were empty, void of any emotion except, emptiness itself. As if something, someone had put out the fire within her. Jon pulled her close.

“The first one is always the hardest,” he whispered into her ear.

“I told her that,” Arya said then, “Sansa killed a dozen of them, you ought to know. She’s put Longclaw to good use.”

“And you?” Jon tried to smile, just as Arya pulled two sticks from behind her back and joined them. “Needle is useless, but I had this. Got a few with it, and with the dagger. Though I got lost in the library, Beric and the Hound found me. There were dozens after me. We barely escaped.”

“I hope you burned down Winterfell,” Sansa whispered then.

“No, I did no such thing,” Jon smiled, “It’s of no worth to them. One day you’ll return, I promise you. It’ll be there. Albeit lacking two towers and a few other bits… shall keep you busy for a while, your grace to rebuild that.”

They all stood in silence for a while, each lost in their thoughts of loved ones and friends gone. The silent mourning was interrupted by Brienne, Davos and Reed entering the tent. Jon turned to reach, but Reed raised his right arm.

“I’ll survive,” he said. Then Jon saw. He had no left arm. Jon turned and grabbed the man, holding him close for a moment, taking it in.

“I would have you to know my right arm is my sword arm,” Reed said in a thin voice, “that one had barely any use. Can wipe my ass just as well as before, can swing a sword. I’m not quite a Lannister yet.”

“Anyone knows anything about Jaime Lannister,” Jon turned back toward the group, but they only shook their heads.

“He wasn’t among the dead, not that I’ve seen.” Jon explained then, “He was the one who shut the door to the cellars, Beric and Thoros with him. But when I went to burn the bodies, Jaime wasn’t with them anymore. He must be in the tunnel.”

“I send men to find the Lion, I lead them myself.” Grey Worm said resolutely, looking at Dany. She nodded in approval and Grey Worm rushed out of the tent.

“And Tormund, too, if you see him,” Jon called after him.

***

It didn’t take long. The unsullied duly returned with a few unconscious men, among them Tormund and Jaime Lannister. They were taken to the maester of the Umbers’, seeing that the Starks had none anymore. Jon wondered about poor Wolkan. He couldn’t have found much joy in his service. First the Boltons, then Jon and the dead. For all Jon knew of the maesters, he expected Wolkan in the tunnel as soon as the battle began. But the chubby maester, who spoke little and shared even less, surprised him. He had valour in him. This other maester, whose name Jon didn’t even know, assured them that Ser Jaime and Tormund were merely incapacitated and will come to, but when, he could not tell. There was magic in the ash, that worried Jon.

Reed couldn’t tell what happened with the ash. Reed couldn’t really tell anything, truth be told, the man was in some kind of a delirium over losing his arm and couldn’t think straight. He murmured something about the magic of Winterfell, and the old kings of Winter, but Jon couldn’t fathom. One thing that Reed said, that Jon couldn’t understand was that he must be a Stark. He, but Reed kept repeating it, without ever saying whom he referred to. It was a certain shock, Jon realised. The maester saw to the wound, cleaned it and burned it, then closed it. Reed said he wasn’t in pain, he felt the arm there. He saw it falling off his body he said, and yet he still felt it, he kept reaching to touch it. Jon asked the maester for milk of the poppy, but sure, there was none. Jon sent away the whole supply with Bran. Davos took Reed to rest, Brienne guarding. It had to suffice.

The camp settled into rest. He walked around, seeing the men carried out his command to rest in pairs. They must’ve understood why, because every second man was sitting alert next to one who were resting wrapped in blankets. By the time he finished walking the camp they were changing their roles. He tried to clear his mind, tried to figure what happened. The Night King gained a dragon, he came for the dragon. He came to Winterfell with the purpose of killing a dragon, claiming one of their greatest weapons for himself. Then he stopped the attack. They took the castle; the walkers were as far in as the godswood, but they stopped the attack. Perhaps they realised that the living escaped. Jon already ordered the sealing of the tunnel; Grey Worm saw to the task being done. But there were still fighting, and there were their dead.

He left their dead. He allowed Jon and Dany to burn them without any interference. He didn’t want them. He must’ve been after something else. But what? What could be in the godswood….

Then Jon knew.

He ran back to the command tent, where the group were bundled up in blankets on makeshift camp beds. He went straight to Dany.

“We must go,” he said, shaking her. She sat up, her face alert.

“We must go Dany, please,” Jon said, and she stood immediately, following him out of the tent. At safe distance from its entrance, he turned toward her to speak.

“They went to the godswood, Dany,” he began to explain in a hurry, “Bran wanted to be there, he wanted to be burned in the godswood. He knew they’ll seek him out there, and they did because they didn’t know where he was. But then,” Jon swallowed, “Bran must’ve come to because I swear I heard him in my mind, he said to burn the godswood. And I did but by then they turned, the walkers. And the attack ceased. He must’ve figured, Dany. We must find Bran, Dany please… we must protect him.”

He rushed out the words, hoping they made sense. When he finished, she merely turned and rushed away. Toward the dragons. Jon followed, seeing Edric limping toward him.

“Edric, break camp within the hour and leave, and stay on the move through the night. They have shadowcats, you need to keep moving south before those reach you. You need to reach Castle Cerwyn.” Edric nodded.

“Where are you going,” he asked then.

“White Harbor.”

***

The flight was cold. Jon began to feel the lack of food, the lack of warm clothing atop Rhaegal. He couldn’t see anything below, soon after they left camp they flew atop storm clouds, real ones to Jon’s relief, albeit he couldn’t tell what moved below them. He couldn’t see anything, hoping the dragons knew where they were going as he shivered, his thoughts with Bran. It can’t be, he thought. He made this mistake once, at the Last Hearth. But he sent Bran days ahead, it can’t be repeated, not again. He could hear the bells ringing in the distance, closer and closer. It could not be, he kept repeating to himself.

The storm cleared under him, ending all his hopes.

White Harbor was surrounded by white storm clouds, and these were not looking as natural to Jon. This is where the other thirty thousand was then, he thought. They went after where the ‘meat’ was. The harbour was full of ships, as he flew past he could make out hastily boarding families, women, children. The people of the North whom he sent here to safety, were now trying to get on these ships knowing full well that they had no more time. He couldn’t see Bran or the sigil of black lizard. They weren’t here.

Jon turned back toward the city, Dany following his lead on Drogon. He had to find Bran. He flew past the countless houses, the small castle that was Lord Manderly’s residence, servants rushing about with chests and baskets. Manderly was trying to save his wealth, even now, Jon thought bitterly. It may become their doom.

He flew past the city walls. Then he saw.

A small group of riders approaching, with the sigil of a black lizard. He could make out the bundle wrapped in furs with one of the riders.

‘Give up, Jon.’ He heard in in his mind. No. he leaned close to Rhaegal and the dragon began to dive toward them. He could hear Drogon’s wings next to him. They were still too far, but the dragons only needed to reach them, and they’ll be able to protect the small group, and escort Bran to safety before a siege began. His eyes were fixed on Bran.

‘He’s here, Jon.’ He heard in his mind. Of course he was here, he came for Bran. Jon what a fool you’ve been, you did this. You did this. He urged Rhaegal to hurry, to protect them. They were getting close, Jon could see the dead rushing behind them, to catch them.

A shriek, unlike any other, a dead dragon diving behind the small group. Jon heard himself shout, “NO!” as the ice dragon opened its jaws, blue ball of fire erupting right in front of Jon’s eyes, catching the small group of riders from behind. He saw Bran. He felt Bran. ‘Kill him. Goodbye Brother.’ He saw the flames engulfing Bran and Jon screamed, as loud as he ever could, and Rhaegal shrieked of his pain, before he unleashed his own fire at the dead Viserion.

The dead dragon turned to side avoiding the flames as Jon flew past the burning group of men and horses. Of Bran. Drogon followed behind, breathing fire on the dead. Jon’s mind merely processed a thank you for what he should’ve done, as Rhaegal turned. Jon could feel that burst of energy that he felt on Dragonstone when he first felt the dragon, yet it was fuelled by rage, his own rage. Rhaegal attacked, breathing fire on the dead dragon as he neared, before he grabbed a wing in his claws.

Viserion immediately lashed out to bite, but Drogon reached the other wing. Pull. They did, for long moments, and the ice dragon shrieked, louder and louder, trying to reach either of them and trying to bite, the Night King reaching for a spear on his back. But he was too late. The broken wing tore, just as he would’ve aimed at Jon, and Rhaegal shot up in the sky, the wing in his claws still flapping. Jon could see Viserion falling to the ground, and the Night King falling off its back. He watched as the Night King stood, as Dany and Drogon lowered in front of him and beathed fire on him.

Rhaegal circled down, dropping the flapping wing that landed in the snow, still moving still trying to fly. To Jon’s horror, the Night King emerged from the flames of Dragonfire with spear in his hand. It was Dany’s time to shoot up in the sky, in makeshift circles, never in pattern. Smart, Jon thought, very smart.

Viserion was still brething fire at Rhaegal, their lines of fire meeting at that invisible wall between them. Another standoff, that only Rhaegal could break now, but he didn’t want to. Suddenly Drogon dove in, his jaws going straight for the neck of dead Viserion. The sound of a dragonspine breaking is unlike any other, it’s like earth quake in the air, as Drogon tore off the head. As the fire ceased, Jon looked back at the dead. They were standing, the Night King wasn’t there anymore. They lost him, they lost their chance. Jon wanted to shout after him, to fight as a man, to end this the old way, as idiotic as the thought was. He remembered Bran’s words. As long as there is another way, he won’t. Destroy his army and he will.

He leaned close to Rhaegal’s back just as the dragon picked up the command. As he flew he unleashed fire on the dead Viserion, and this time, the carcass burned. But his fire didn’t stop there. The dead moved at once, rushing toward him, and Rhaegal burned them. Burn them all, Jon thought, burn them all.

Drogon and Rhaegal took turns in a circle to halt the attack, circling back close enough to the city to see the harbour. They were still evacuating. The city began to sink into emptiness, there were no servants rushing about, the carts loaded with trunks and baskets stood still, abandoned.

This city was the trading hub of the North. The lifeline, the guarantee that they could last through each winter, it traded furs for grain each winter, precious metals for salted meat and wine. Yet now, it stood empty, save the harbour where the cries grew louder. Dinghies began to depart, and return, ferrying refugees to ships that didn’t fit into the harbour, and ships were loaded beyond capacity.

The dead reached the walls, and they continued burning them while the defenders fired arrows at them. Barrels of pitch were dropped and exploded, yet it was not enough. It could never be enough. The walls of White Harbor were not built to withstand a siege, merely to keep out unwanted travellers. They were no match to thirty thousand. Yet Drogon and Rhaegal continued to burn them.

Jon circled above the walls, shouting “Fall back! Fall back!” and the men rushed to retreat, as Rhaegal turned and breathed fire on the walls. Only he could lose two major keeps in one day, Jon thought bitterly, as the dead reached the streets, rushing past, catching those staggering behind. Jon turned, tried to protect them the way Dany protected him during his retreats, but it proved to be futile.  He knew there wasn’t enough time.

Drogon turned toward the harbour, and Jon could see a line of fire emerging as he flew by. Protecting the harbour, while Rhaegal burned the dead on the streets. Men got trapped between the lines of fire, just as they did when Jaime Lannister shot the door to escape in Winterfell. There was nothing to do about it, Jon told himself, trying to convince himself. They had to save the refugees, they had to win some time. Drogon turned, and Jon realised what was coming.

She burned them, burned the houses, the dead, and the few of the living trapped by Drogon’s fire, their escape route cut. Jon exhaled slowly, feeling time stop. If he ever survived this war, he could tell the nightmares that will haunt him forever. Men screaming burning alive of dragonfire.

Yet it worked, the dead halted, and through the smoke Jon could see that the attack ceased. He flew high to dive above the harbour. How long they burned the city he couldn’t tell, but he could see that it was enough. The harbour was empty. Dinghies and ships hurrying away on the shivering sea, and in the distance, men on ships helping aboard those that arrived in dinghies. It worked. Thanks to the few sacrificed in the flames, it worked, saving countless lives of innocents.

He circled around the city, now more of a bonfire, larger than anyone could ever imagine, within the white stone walls, and flew out to the field. Drogon followed. Jon had one goal. Destroy his army. Make the Night King fight him, make him believe there was no other way. Drogon parted from him, as if they knew. Perhaps the dragons knew. Perhaps Dany understood through them. They burned a circle around the thousands upon thousands of wights, and they kept burning them, narrowing the circle each time.

There’ll be no escape. Not this time. For Bran. For Maester Wolkan, for Beric and Thoros, for little Lyanna Mormont. For Bronze Royce and Gran Umber. For Uncle Benjen. They circled and circled, burning them, thousands upon thousands. Spears flew high and bounced off the dragonscales. There were no birds here, no beasts, those were left to carry out the dragon hunt at Winterfell. There was nothing the dead could do, as Jon watched the walkers depart through the fire, and walk away. ‘I hope you regret it’, Jon thought. ‘I hope you see that you will never defeat me.’

‘I am he’, Jon thought. ‘I am the one sent to send you to the seventh of hells. You’ll never rise again. I swear to you, you will pay. You will pay for my brother.’

Their work complete, the dragons shot up to the sky, disappearing from sight. Jon couldn’t tell how long they flew, time stopped, and rushed all the same for him. They landed on frozen ground, patches of frozen grass and mud. To the north, he could see a small castle, tall and narrow towers. Castle Cerwyn.

He climbed off the dragon, silently thanking him for avenging his brother. Both their brothers. Then he fell on his knees, and for the first time, he gave in. He cried, face in his palms, he let it take over him. He could feel soft fingers in his hair, a warm embrace, he could see the silver hair surrounding him. But his tears kept flowing, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Not just yet. All this time, all this loss, and the pain he buried inside, all that happened since the day he took a breath laying atop a wooden table in the Lord Commander’s solar at Castle Black, it all came back at once. It took over him, and it shook him to his core. Kill him. Goodbye Brother. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. The man has been born.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadcount:  
> \- BRAN STARK - RIP  
> \- Viserion - dead for good this time.
> 
> Plus 30000 wights  
> And approx 10000 of the living + approx 5000 at WH.
> 
> Remaining wights: 20000 approx + bears mammoths shadowcats ravens eagles... but no dragon.
> 
> Ps - here’s a poll. Name the maester of the Umbers / Last Hearth. I’ve had no ideas, I’ll pick the one with the most votes (unless it’s something silly of course lol) cheers!


	35. The Neck I.

_This little bird sings a new song, of a Targaryen revealed, born in Dorne and raised in Winterfell, named King in the North, the last of Rhaegar Targaryen’s brood. An army of dead men march across Westeros, three battles and yet to be defeated they march on Winterfell, the people of the North crammed into tents safely on Dragonstone. Winterfell will fall, the dead will march onwards to the South. Only by all of us united can they be defeated. Join the army of the living led by the one true heir to the Iron Throne, the prince that was promised, the king in the North. Join Aegon Targaryen to save Westeros, from the dead, from those who would claim it, who would rule it and exploit its people for the sake of power. The time has come to fight, draw your swords and arrows!_

***

Cersei read the scroll, again and again. It arrived only this morning by a raven, from Storm’s End.

“We cannot tell where it came from,” she hissed.

“No, the garrison sadly didn’t see that important,” Qyburn added, “But they forwarded the message to your Grace.”

She took a deep breath, reading the scroll once more. Ned Stark’s bastard claims to be Rhaegar’s son and raised a claim on the Iron Throne. Her throne. As if she needed another Targaryen, but no. This cannot be more than a mere lie, it’s impossible to be true. She saw the corpse of little Aegon Targaryen with her own eyes, the babe’s head smashed. It was dead.

“You say there are more of this?” Cersei asked holding up the scroll.

“Yes, your grace,” Qyburn explained, “A few of the lesser houses received the same message. Must be an attempt at propaganda, raise suspicion against your grace.”

“No,” Cersei shook her head, “This is no suspicion against me. Everyone knows that Aegon Targaryen is dead. Everyone who knows that dull bastard king in the North would know he only cares about his army of dead men. It’s propaganda, you are correct. To raise armies.”

Cersei smiled. Yes, she must be correct. “They are losing, Qyburn.” She added. “They must be desperate if they rely on such lies to gain more fighting men.”

“What will you do, your grace?”

“I will give them more fighting men,” Cersei smirked, “Though not the way they would expect it.”

She turned to leave the chamber of the Hand. She couldn’t stand the stench of chemicals much longer. From the door she looked back.

“Send for Strickland. It’s time those elephants I paid for are being put to use, send him North at first light tomorrow.”

“Against the dead?” Qyburn looked genuinely surprised.

“No, you fool,” Cersei laughed. “But if the army of the living will retreat south, you wouldn’t want them to cross the Trident, would you? They are losing in the North. It’s time to show them what it is like losing on two fronts with nowhere to retreat but the sea.”

***

Time was dragging in anxiety and fear. Jon could see it in the eyes of the men – not only due to their losses, but the loss of a dragon, and especially because everyone had to watch the dragon slain in front of their eyes. That was a good trick, Jon had to admit. Dead men don’t fear, he could never do the same. His men feared, every waking moment, and they dreamt. If last night, their first here was any indication, the nights in the North were no longer silent. Men rose covered in sweat awaken by their own screams in the darkness. Jon wondered how long they can live like this before the army falls apart.

It was always to end like this, and still, now that they were here, the harshness of reality hit harder than anyone could prepare for. It was different until now. When the wall fell, they retreated as planned and while the defeat did hit the men hard, it could be said that it was according to plan, especially after the attack north of the Last Hearth. It was always to be a war of attrition. They took every chance to reduce the numbers of their enemy, and there wasn’t a man in the camp who didn’t know of White Harbor, they made sure of that. Thirty thousand of the dead burned by the two dragons, by the king and the queen, the dead dragon now dead for good. Still tens of thousands of dead men to defeat though, and what they’ve seen at Winterfell could not be erased as easily.

The Night King escaped, again. He was likely back with his remaining army, and none could tell where. Sending scouting parties was out of the question, sending dragons to scout was impossible to imagine. It took two living dragons to defeat a dead one, losing another dragon would mean losing the war. With Reed being in no fit state to warg, the living was truly blind now.

War council was called for the second time today, and this is where Jon was heading now. He had a plan. It wasn’t exactly a plan, but it was their chance, the best they’ve got, before their men lose all hope. Deserters were reported by the dozen almost every hour today. The fools, how did they convince themselves that they’ll make it? If it wasn’t safe to remain with the army, how could it be safe to wander around the Neck trying to reach the Trident alone, when an army of twenty thousand or more was after them? Jon couldn’t understand.

He stepped into the hall, Lord Cerwyn’s grim face greeting him. Of all the people who perished, Jon couldn’t name a single one who wasn’t worth more to him than whinging Cerwyn – as the Hound began to call the lord who currently housed them all. At least he remained mute since the army arrived at his home, surely wondering what will become of the castle that the Cerwyns named after themselves, once the dead had also reached it. The Cerwyns were proud folk, though Jon could never fathom the reason why. They built this castle in the image of the Red Keep itself, as if they were hoping to be more southern or northern, on the path of the Kingsroad to Winterfell. As if the Targaryen kings of old would pay them more mind, as if one day this place would grant them status. It seemed laughable to Jon. Too far from the Trident, the only achievement the Cerwyns could boast of was the doubt of their alliance to the North, to Winterfell. As if the slender towers of their castle were erected to wordlessly proclaim their forsaking of their own roots. Not that Jon could see the North in Lord Cerwyn – on the opposite. Perhaps they did hope to forsake their roots, for Cerwyn was everything Jon imagined the southern lords to be. Soon, he thought, he’ll see for himself if that was true.

Slowly they all arrived. Daenerys and Jorah Mormont, Grey Worm, Missandei – as if the latter had anything to add to any war council to date. Arya and Sansa. Jaime Lannister, Sam, Edd and Howland Reed – steadily recovering from the loss of his left arm, meaning, steadily sinking into defeat by his loss from the delirium in which he spent the first day or so after Winterfell. Lord Glover and Edric. That amused Jon, he did wonder whether it was Glover or Edric initiating this newfound friendship. The only thing he was certain of was its cause – that was Jon himself. Jon and his being a Targaryen. It infuriated him, how much Edric’s promise of trust and friendship depended on the right family name – or lack of. While he was a bastard with the name of the land, he was worthy – this could be said to more than half of the northerners actually. They thought of him less now that he was a Targaryen then when he was a mere bastard of the North.

“Why are we meeting if there’s nothing new to discuss,” Edric asked, looking straight into Jon’s eye. Jon couldn’t read his face anymore, he mainly seemed foreign in Jon’s presence.

“Shall we just sit and wait for the dead then,” Arya hissed, causing Jon to chuckle.

“I propose to do neither,” Jon said, “If you all agree, I mean to march into the Neck.”

They all stared at him surprised. “You would give up this castle,” Jaime Lannister pointed out after a long moment of silence while they all collected their thoughts.

“I think we’ve proven that we are shit at defending castles,” Jon said. “We can’t even cram half of our force into the keep, once more, and the dragons cannot fight. The Dothraki cannot fight, the knights of the Vale cannot fight. There’s not much to gain, but I don’t mean to give it up. I mean to leave a particular force behind.”

“To join the army of the dead?” Cerwyn spoke then, his shaking voice betraying his thoughts of hope that he won’t be ordered to defend his own home.

“To bide us time while we put some distance between us and the dead,” Jon explained. “Hear me out. We have Lord Reed with us, the swamps of the Neck could be used for our advantage and there is no one who knows the Neck better than its lord. Much like the cliffs around the Last Hearth, we were the most successful whenever we used the terrain to our advantage, the cliffs, the Long Lake... Castle Cerwyn will fall, I have no doubt of that. But if we can prepare, we may be able to halt them while they attempt to cross the Neck.”

“Who are we to leave behind to die,” Lord Glover hissed. “It’s Cerwyn’s keep, this fancy castle, I say he should defend it.”

Cerwyn opened his mouth but no words came. His eyes seemed to beg Jon for a favourable answer instead.

“The riders will depart. Dothraki, knights of the Vale, the cavalry of the Wolves. I would suggest the freefolk as well, they know how to make use of any terrain. Any men of Reed that remain are to join them.”

“This leaves about 6000 northerners, and same amount of Unsullied,” Edric pointed out, “about 4000 Wolves and same number of Lions.”

“The Unsullied will depart, so will the Lions,” Jon declared, “I will not favour one over the other. And I do agree with Lord Glover for once, this is a northern keep – Northmen should defend it.” His eyes settled on Sansa, “If their Queen agrees.”

“What is your plan?” Sansa raised an eyebrow and Jon’s lips curved into a slight smile. A queen of one week, Jon already learned that she was not one to be blindly led on.

“Dig a trench a mile out east and west, line with pitch, and erect a fence behind it with rampart, if there’s enough time, or just stand behind the trench in safe distance. Spread the archers across the ramparts and the wall, defended by fighters. They should have horses awaiting to each men, I believe we have enough, with Cerwyn’s.”

“Block their way south, you mean?” Edric asked with a raised eyebrow and a slight grin. Yes, Edric, I can still come up with crazy plans, Jon thought bitterly.

“Exactly,” Jon began to explain, “When they break through in numbers, the men should retreat on horseback. That will also lead the dead to the Neck, and we’ll wait for them there.”

“I like it,” Edric grinned before he caught himself, “It’s how we fought best, I give you that.”

“I like it, too,” Jaime Lannister added, looking at Sansa. Finally, she nodded.

“It is decided, then,” Jon said. “I suggest we leave within the hour and march through the night.”

“Will the dragons leave?” Cerwyn asked and all looked to Daenerys. But Jon spoke instead.

“The dragons will leave,” he stated firmly, “There’s no need for them here, unless you mean to part with your fancy towers my lord. Let the Night King believe we are afraid to use our greatest weapons.”

“Are we not?” Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Afraid.”

Jon just sighed. There was no point of this discussion to continue, they’ve discussed it privately multiple times – the dragon’s death, Bran’s death. There was nothing to say. Sansa would use the dragons without care for them, Jon would not – they were not his dragons. Sansa insisted long enough, to reduce Daenerys’ chances by letting the dead deal with her dragons. Jon couldn’t agree to such scheming, not after seeing the Queen’s loss, not after seeing Rhaegal’s thoughts and how the dragon fought for Bran, for the living. For him. Jon turned and left the room.

***

“I keep thinking of the last twenty years, the war, the murders, the misery… all because Robert Baratheon loved a woman who didn’t love him back.” Tyrion reached for his goblet and drank heartily. At least the wine was better on Dragonstone.

“And now, everyone knows,” Varys sat down beside him.

“Not everyone,” Tyrion pointed out, “Everyone in the North. Those who aren’t crammed on this island, they know. Our queen never had the North to begin with, it makes little difference.”

“Forgive me,” Varys raised an eyebrow, “It makes all the difference. He has the better claim to the throne.”

“He doesn’t want the throne, our queen was clear about that,” Tyrion held up the scroll in his hand to emphasise his words. He carried it for the better part of a fortnight now, read it every day.

“Do you know our Queen to be a sound judge of character?”

“She likes Jon Snow, what of it,” Tyrion shrugged it off.

“Love is the death of duty,” Varys said, more to himself.

“It wasn’t a proposal for a love match,” Tyrion countered, “It was sound. Think about it, she would’ve gained the North without bloodshed. Yes, she likes Jon Snow, he’s pleasing to the eye, and he’s not one to hunger for power. It would’ve worked marvellously.”

“But he’s a Targaryen,” Varys smirked. “I’m not sure that it matters what he wants. The fact is, people are drawn to him. Wildlings, northmen, our queen… he’s a war hero.”

“We could marry them still,” Tyrion walked around the small chamber they shared, pulling a chair by the fire. There was no longer the luxury of having one’s own chamber to himself – the northern lords who left their land crammed into the fort. “He likes our queen enough, and she for sure likes him. If we marry them, they could rule together.”

“You know our Queen better than I do, do you think she wants to share the throne? She doesn’t like to have her authority questioned.”

“Something she has in common with every monarch who ever lived,” This discussion wasn’t really leading anywhere, Tyrion thought to himself. There was something in the air, something he couldn’t fathom.

“I worry about her state of mind.”

“We are advisors to the Queen, worrying about her state of mind is our job,” Tyrion shrugged. “And we still have to take Kings Landing after Jon and Daenerys, and my brother, defeated the dead. Maybe Cersei will kill us all. That would solve our problems.”

“And maybe, most likely, we will take Kings Landing,” Varys stood, dragging his chair closer to the fire to face Tyrion. “And when we are done, Jon Snow will raise his claim. The North will stand behind him, the Vale and the Riverlands will surely join them, Sansa Stark will make sure of that.”

“The North will be in no state to back any claim.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Varys leaned back on his chair mimicking Tyrion. “We are saving the North. They say the North remembers, but I can’t help but feel that they’ll forget this one.”

“Jon Snow surrendered his claim, I would remind you,” Tyrion raised the scroll in his hand once more, “he traded his claim for the independence of the North, publicly. Northerners are petty, bitter folk. They won’t back the claim of a would be king if it means losing what they see is theirs by right.”

“You were married to Sansa Stark once; do you see her letting go of Jon Snow?”

“He’s her brother,” Tyrion smirked, “Actually, her cousin. He surrendered his kingship and named her Queen. Why wouldn’t she let him go, he’s a threat.”

“He’s a threat to everyone,” Varys sighed, “and yet, the common people are drawn to him. What ever he does, they support him. If he decides to raise his claim…”

“He will not.”

“But if he does,” Varys argued, “and our Queen remains so smitten with him, what do you think will happen?”

“What are you saying?” It surely felt like they were finally arriving at the point, Tyrion noted to himself.

“I am saying, the Queen must open her eyes. We are her advisors. It is our job to open her eyes.”

***

“Here you go, your grace,” Sansa glanced aside, to the blanket, then Edric. She took it, and the commander reached to hold her reins while she wrapped it around herself.

“Thank you,” she whispered with a small smile.

“We wouldn’t want our queen to freeze on night marches,” Edric said nonchalantly, “One day, this war will be won, and we’ll return to the North. We need our Queen. Spring will come, and life will go on, people will rebuild and marry and have children and wait for summer while telling each other that winter is coming.”

Sansa looked at him lengthily. “A pretty image, that is,” she said, her voice void of any emotion.

“Aye, it is,” Edric smiled, “The North will have a pretty queen, and a smart one. You will also marry a pretty lord, or perhaps not so pretty, but honourable, and have little babes who will rule after you. Life will go on, your grace. This is but a short part of it.”

“Are you suggesting yourself as a candidate, my lord,” Sansa asked.

“Me?” Edric allowed a small laugh, “I serve, your grace. I tried marriage before, I am not the best of husbands. I wouldn’t necessarily be a good choice.”

“And why is that?”

“I like fighting too much,” Edric grinned, “It’s all I’ve ever known. I would make a terrible king – if I dragged myself out of my luxurious chambers all I would do is fight people, other kings. I would conquer Westeros or would die trying. Then you’d have no king or husband. Believe me your grace, I am better serving. Besides, you are half my age, and way too pretty for a man like myself, you’d be wasted on me. Why, was I of consideration?”

Sansa shrugged. “I would have to find use of you, would I not? But you just explained that you’re a worse husband than a servant, then I cannot find much use for you, either way, for truly, you are a terrible servant my lord.”

Edric was honestly surprised by her words. “Why is that, if I may…”

“You may ask,” Sansa smirked, “And I would tell you even if you didn’t ask. And because I am your Queen, you will listen. IF you would serve me the way you served Jon, then I have no use for you.”

“Your grace, those are harsh words,” Edric began, his cheerful demeanour completely diminished.

“Are you insulted, my lord,” Sansa asked with feigned nonchalance. “It is the truth though, is it not? You served Jon, swore yourself on your knees to him, while he gave you and your people a home, he made you a lord, and you proclaimed your trust and friendship. Then you turned right in the moment he would’ve needed you most.”

“He lied to all of us, he’s a Targaryen,” Edric hissed, “My ancestors left this land because of an Aegon Targaryen. I hear that is his true name. Besides, you made me a lord, not he.”

“Then let me tell you the truth, lord Edric,” Sansa said sternly, pulling the blanket closer around herself. “It was Jon who considered to meet you, I spoke up against it. But as Jon kept saying, we needed every man we could get, and the Dreadfort is abandoned, good lands. It was he who convinced me, and it was he who asked me to grant it to you the day he revealed who he was. He never lied to me, I was there when he found out. I always knew. I asked him to not tell anyone. You know why, lord Edric? Because I’ve seen dead men rising at Castle Black and I knew that our people will behave just as childish about it as you do.”

“And if this is not enough, I ask you to remember what Jon gave for the North. He gave his claim to the Iron Throne. He gave his freedom too, for the Dragon Queen will take him to Kings Landing. Jon gave his life for the North, and you, and the likes of you, behave as if he committed a grievous unforgivable sin buying you your independence.”

Edric didn’t answer for a while, and they rode on in silence. Finally, he sighed.

“You say she will take him to Kings Landing,” he said lowly.

“Yes, she will,” Sansa nodded. “There is a part of the deal that the likes of you don’t know. That he is to leave the North, he is to wed and breed and stay by her side to the end of his days, so he can give her heirs and she can keep an eye on him.”

“Like a slave,” Edric remarked.

“Yes, like a slave.” Sansa took a deep breath, “Jon is of the North. Whatever his name, I’ve heard him enough times declaring that the North is part of him. I know Kings Landing. It will break him. It would break anyone.”

“It didn’t break you,” Edric interrupted.

“It did,” Sansa whispered, “a dozen times over. I’ve not been whole since, not until I arrived at Castle Black. That’s what Jon does to people, my lord. He makes them whole. He gives them purpose.”

“Perhaps you should do something about it then,” Edric whispered.

“I can’t,” Sansa sighed. “He forbade it. That’s the problem with Jon. He keeps sacrificing himself.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break - life handed me a massive basket of lemons this week, so I mainly slept & kept thinking. Also about the story, I updated my chapter plans because it's really at approx S8E4-5 now (if it had 10 eps like a normal season) - it's the beginning of the end, after the double chapter previously that was a major turning point.


	36. The Neck II.

“If we mean to draw them in, we have to block the Kingsroad,” Reed declared.

“We cannot risk another siege,” Jaime Lannister countered, “If we man Moat Cailin, they will besiege it and we won’t win that fight.”

Jon nodded, staring at the map. They had to address the causeway between Moat Cailin and the marshlands of the Neck.

“What if we burn it,” Daenerys said lowly, duly expecting the reprimand that followed.

“You cannot burn Moat Cailin,” Sansa remarked. “It is the gate to the North, I am sure it would be beneficial now, but we have need for it, seeing we are an independent country from the kingdoms you mean to conquer.”

“You already think of defending your kingdom after this war is won,” Ser Jorah remarked. “The war is not won yet.”

“Forgive me Ser Jorah,” Sansa’s voice was firm, “My role in this council is to represent my kingdom. My kingdom gave a lot in this war, we cannot risk opening our borders when the next war is already on the horizon.”

“So the North will not fight in the next war,” Jaime remarked, staring at Sansa.

“The North will close its border, for it cannot have another war fought on its soil after this,” Sansa explained, “Our lands are devastated already, and winter is here. Whether we will fight on southern soil, that I cannot tell. We shall see when we come to it.”

Jon smiled. It was smart, he had to admit. It wasn’t helpful at all, burning Moat Cailin sounded a good idea, easy to execute. But Sansa as always thought ahead, and Jon had to admit that she was right, and played her cards well. Much like Jon used to, after all he paved the way for her – she only had to keep it together.

“We need to block the kingsroad,” Jon said, “If the fort is abandoned, it’ll be a natural barrier and nothing more. If we block the kingsroad that’ll serve us and serve the intention of the Queen in that the northern border will be closed.”

His eyes settled on Daenerys, but she showed no emotion. Jon hoped she won’t see the offence in this, or a threat, as their eyes met. He couldn’t figure her thoughts, she seemed to be focused on the task ahead. It only occurred to Jon now, she was without her advisors. Tyrion and Varys were sent to Dragonstone, stripping her of political advice against Jaime, Sansa and Jon himself. He could tell she didn’t deal with politics before, while Sansa trained under Cersei and Littlefinger. Sansa may not be half as strong as either of those snakes, but she presented a threat to Daenerys, Jon could see that. Daenerys was a conqueror, she didn’t delve into the ‘what comes after’.

“There’s not much to burn on the Kingsroad.” Daenerys said, “flat grass and dirt.”

“How about this, we dig a ditch,” Lord Reed said, “redirect the water from the Fever river. It has multiple branches close enough. Cross the road with it right to the fort. In the swamps we can do the same, if the dragons are willing to break the river ice.”

“It’s a massive task,” Jon remarked, “digging miles of trench deep enough and redirecting the river, it flows the opposite way than what we would need.”

“Are these woodlands,” Daenerys pointed to the west of the neck.

“Aye, they are,” Reed remarked, “The woods keep the ground together, so to say. That is why the swamps haven’t taken over that area.”

“I am not well educated in geography, my lord,” Daenerys smiled apologetically, “What does that mean?”

“Ages ago, there was woodland across the neck. The first men began to cut down the woods, perhaps to use as building materials, perhaps to open the road to the lands in the south. The land began to sink, first sinkholes, then the rivers took over, creating the marshes. By the time they realised the effect of it, it was impossible to replant the woodland, the ground was too weak, washed by the waters. In short, that’s why my lands are swamps, and Greywater Watch was built on the river to float.”

“A castle that floats on a river,” Daenerys was amazed.

“It’s not a castle, your grace,” Reed smiled a proud smile, “It’s of wood, not stone, there are no high towers like Cerwyn’s. We built it on a small patch of land, I mean my ancestors did, so it could not be made heavy by stone walls and towers. They planted trees in the gardens in the middle and built the fort around it. They somehow released it onto the river, it floats with the ground having to be strengthened time to time, the water tends to wash it away. It requires constant maintenance, but it’s safer than any of those stone fortresses. Even Winterfell.”

“I would much like to see it,” Daenerys said with awe in her eyes that warmed Jon’s heart. It must’ve warmed Reed’s too for he stood straighter now as he answered.

“And you are more than welcome to see it soon enough, your grace,” Reed declared, “Only a crannogman could find Greywater Watch on the water, with the plantation of the marshes, and we shall make use of that soon. And once we reach my home, I shall invite you to a hearty supper Crannog style, it’s overdue. My cooks are on Dragonstone by now, but I can make a good roast myself.”

“We’ll all become frog-eaters,” Jaime Lannister’s face was a mix of shock and excitement, with some resentment thrown in at the thought of what a hearty supper would entail to Howland Reed.

“Frog-eaters?” Daenerys looked at Reed, then Jon, who burst out laughing at her face.

“Aye, I meant to try that before I die,” Jon said amidst his laughter, and Reed laughed too.

“There’s not much growing in the marshlands, your grace,” he began to explain to Daenerys, “sea weeds, frogs and birds. That’s why those in the south call us frog-eaters. It’s delicious by the way, you will agree with me I am sure.”

“First we need to reach Greywater Watch with thousands of men,” Ser Jorah spoke.

“True, and you cannot take thousands of men to Greywater Watch,” Reed pointed at the map, “Here, the map marks rivers. They’re there, but the land is nothing more than mud. Not a man can safely walk it, not without guidance. Here,” he pointed, “and here, here, and here,” his fingers travelled on the map, “there are patches safe. Still we have too many men.”

“We could execute something like the plan at the Last Hearth,” Jaime Lannister said, “Though the distance is longer, we could march the men south on the Kingsroad and camp near the Twins. Take those we have no use for and use them as bait.”

“I like that idea,” Jon remarked, “But it poses one problem. You leave the marshlands and you left the North. Either of you will be beyond our protection, it must be highlighted now.”

“Forgive me, Jon,” Daenerys turned toward him, “Either of us were beyond your protection for a long time now.”

Jaime Lannister took a deep breath, listening as she spoke. “I will ferry across the Dothraki from Dragonstone, because this seems to be the last chance to land beyond the reach of Cersei.”

“Here,” Reed pointed, “This is the harbour, merely a village and it’s small and abandoned, but this is the last harbour on northern soil. We use it to ferry whatever trade we make.”

“This should mean that the Dothraki and the Unsullied will definitely march across the Neck, and unite with the rest of their forces,” Jon stated the obvious, looking at Jaime. “It is your choice, Ser Jaime.”

“It is not his choice,” Sansa remarked. “Forgive me, but we will be revealing our vulnerabilities. The Neck should be defended by northmen.”

“Sansa,” Jon began pleadingly, “This is an alliance, a level of trust is due to Ser Jaime and his Lions for fighting by our side.”

“And it has been given,” Sansa declared, “But I rather have the Wolves fighting in the marshlands. Ser Jaime’s forces are good at pitched battles, as a fighting unit. I would assume the Wolves are more skilled at the kind of fight we are planning, and even if not, they are sworn to the North. Beyond the marshlands it’s no longer the North.”

“But the dead must still be defeated,” Jon argued, “and we cannot do it if we divide now. You’re giving Ser Jaime no choice but to leave this alliance.”

“Open your eyes, Jon,” Arya interrupted, “We are no longer in the North. Ser Jaime will be fighting on his own soil.”

“Four thousand against thirty, how long before the thirty turns against the four?” Jon raised his voice, his fist slamming onto the makeshift table that held the map.

“That is not our problem,” Arya argued, “That is being a Lannister. We cannot change that.”

“If I may speak,” Ser Davos stepped forward, to Jon’s surprise. Davos seemed silent these past days, Jon realised just this moment how he missed his reasonable grounded advice. “Jon, it is true. You cannot hold this alliance together, it no longer depends on you or the North. It depends on Daenerys and Jaime. It’s their trust that can hold it together.”

“Besides,” Reed added, “Neither of them would part from us I presume? My invite for supper stands for both, so send your armies and give your commands to uphold the peace. I didn’t know Dothraki or Unsullied defying command, not once in this war. We’ve all seen the Lions fight on the wall and in every battle since, I would hope that demands trust and respect.”

The tent settled into silence for a moment, before Daenerys ushered Ser Jorah to step back so she could step in front of Jaime Lannister.

“I will order the protection of your men,” she declared, “Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy, that is what your sister said. It still holds true.”

“And what about after,” Jon asked, “When the Night King falls on southern soil and all the dead are dealt with, will your men just turn around and slay lions in that instant?”

Daenerys glanced at Jon, her eyes narrowed, fuelled by anger. “Three days,” she said lowly, obviously controlling herself as she turned back to Jaime Lannister. “You’ll have three days to return to your sister, should you wish it. I advise you against it, but I give you my word.”

She reached out her hand, her right hand, and Jaime took it.

“I would declare this council over, Jon,” Reed said, “We all need to let off some steam.”

Jon merely nodded as they all left. All except Sansa and Arya.

“We need a word,” Arya stepped in front of him as he tried to pass.

“There is nothing to say,” Jon hissed. “You’ve done your duty, I understand that. But if you spoil this alliance we may as well cut our own throats and wait for the Night King to collect our bodies. Don’t be fooled by their numbers, they still have those beasts and birds. We need to win this together.”

“What we don’t need is trusting your queen,” Arya remarked in that icy tone of hers that she reserved for such occasions.

“So she’s my queen now?” Jon raised his voice. “Since when is she my queen, is that meant to be an insult? Is that what I am to you now?”

Sansa stepped forward, her hand on Jon’s arm. “No Jon,” she said softly, “that is not what Arya meant. But you trust her, and we don’t. We can’t. We have to secure ourselves from her and her dragons, you must see that.”

“And you’ve done a marvellous job of it,” Jon said coolly, “I congratulate you Sansa. You’re every bit of a Queen, righteous and selfish. You seem to have forgotten that there are others in this war. You forgot about me.” He broke free from her and stormed out of the tent.

“He won’t act,” Arya remarked.

“No, he won’t,” Sansa agreed, “she’s his family just like us and he won’t act against her.”

“Then we will have to.” Arya said turning back to her, awaiting her approval that never came.

“He would never forgive us,” she whispered instead. “He will never forgive me.”

***

Jaime walked through the camp, toward the red tents of the lions, as Jon Snow called the Lannister forces. Jaime still liked that. He still admired that while they retreated across what seemed half of Westeros to him, they still had tents. Jon Snow was every bit of the commander that Tywin Lannister portrayed himself to be, Jaime noted to himself once more. And Jon Snow stood for his men just now. He didn’t have to, what does he care about a few thousand men south the border.

Except he did care, because he was a Targaryen. What a twist that was, Jaime still pondered about it. A Targaryen defending Lannisters from another Targaryen. Tywin, I hope you are laughing, that your ashes are laughing at your son now. It was humiliating to say the least, but Jaime was used to humiliation. It was also true, they were nothing but desert after that hearty supper of frogs that Reed promised to them all, and it presented an even bigger conundrum.

Jaime didn’t think of Cersei for weeks now. He didn’t send ravens, he didn’t even consider sending a message, because he didn’t think of her, at all. Knowing Cersei, she knew what was going on anyways. She surely wouldn’t have relied on Jaime spying for her. And in that case, Jaime was certain that Cersei cursed him by now. He should’ve left Winterfell when he could, when Jon Snow declared who he was, Jaime should’ve declared it as Jon siding with Daenerys, which in effect it was – albeit without any force that was certain. One man, but Jon Snow wasn’t just any man. He could mobilise anyone to fight beside him, Jaime could tell. Damn, the man was inspiring, the Lions adored him. That is until he revealed who he was, by now they feared him just as much – but they still adored him, they looked up to him, they were proud to follow him.

The conundrum was that Jaime felt the same. Jon Snow proved to be talented enough to undo many years of being a Lannister, and untie many chains that name bound him with. He felt that he could stand straight once more, fighting this war meant much more than gaining victory. It meant gaining back his honour, as a knight and as a man. And Jaime liked that. He liked who this war turned him to be.

But was it really the war itself? He couldn’t call it happiness, being by Cersei’s side. Not after he learned what she’s done. She blew up the sept, thousands of innocents died. Jaime used to wonder how many of those whose lives he saved by stabbing Mad Aerys in the back have lost their lives at Cersei’s doing. He couldn’t settle it with himself. No, it wasn’t happiness. It was acceptance, of something he could not change, of the fact that he could not turn back time and take them on a different course. He could not save Myrcella, and he could not save Tommen either, and if he thought long enough about it, he could place the blame on Cersei. It was harder in Myrcella’s case, she died for being a Lannister, used as a pawn to declare war between Martells – Sands, not Martells – and Lannisters. But if Cersei wasn’t so hellbent on Tyrion gaining a death sentence, if she didn’t corner that stupid whore whatever her name was, if she didn’t conspire with their father, then perhaps the Red Viper could’ve been saved. True, Oberyn came to Kings Landing then to deal with it, but perhaps for once the Lannisters should’ve acknowledged that they weren’t alone in the world, that the rest of the people who didn’t bear the name weren’t sheep – they were beasts, whose opinions were concerning the Lions, after all, had the Lions not live and die in a cloud of denial and conviction of their own invincibility. No, Cersei herself could’ve saved Myrcella, if she only had any humanity in her. As for Tommen, Cersei didn’t push him out of the window – but it was as good as if she did. Tommen was good, he was innocent, he was nothing like Cersei. And Tommen was smarter than he looked, Jaime could tell. Tommen knew to curb his mother’s lust for power and tried what he could to do just that. Tommen didn’t want to live with the defeat and the loss, and the knowledge that his mother could never be curtailed in her quest for power. Yes, that was Cersei’s fault, Cersei and her undying quest to be on the top of the world. It must be very lonely at the top, Jaime thought, for he knew he didn’t want to join her there.

He was given three days once the war is won. What would he do with it? He felt responsible for his men, he would give them the choice to decide. Perhaps he’d ask to be sent to the wall. He chuckled – there was no Nights Watch anymore, Edd Tollett and whatever few dozen remained were in this very camp somewhere. Perhaps he’d book a ship to Essos and would never return, but that option rang too foreign. He was a Westerosi, and he knew himself enough to know that he’d not make anything of himself but a beggar in Essos, he was proud enough not to choose that life. Perhaps he’d ask the Queen in the North for protection, but it’d be futile. Sansa Stark suffered at the hands of Lannisters, and even if she didn’t, she made her intentions of closing off the North from the upcoming war very clear. Harbouring a Lannister in the North would defeat her purpose, without question, it’d give Daenerys reason to attack the North if it came to it. Jaime had nowhere to go. And nothing to lose, he thought bitterly. Thank you, father, Jaime remarked to himself. Thank you, Cersei.

“Ser,” Jaime almost jumped at the sound of a voice behind him. He didn’t realise that he stopped in his walk, on the camp perimeter, staring into the distance south. The marshlands of the Neck.

“Edric,” Jaime recognised the man, “forgive me, Lord Edric. Your Queen made you a lord. That was smart, doing that just before you lost your king, bind you to the North without him.”

“Aye, I thought the same,” Edric nodded.

“How is the leg,” Jaime asked nonchalantly.

“It’s not the leg that bothers me, I can fight and limp. It’s the cut right here,” he placed his hand just where his left leg met his torso, “I can’t fuck without a cock. So yea, that’s a bother. Let’s hope this war is won swiftly for I mean to figure out whether I still have use of women.”

“This war will be won swiftly,” Jaime remarked, “The fight at White Harbor lowered the numbers of the dead enough for that. They’ll lose a few more thousands in the marshlands, I presume there’ll be a pitched battle to end it. I doubt the northerners would march further south than the Trident either way.”

“What about the next war,” Edric asked and Jaime chuckled at the question.

“We didn’t bring much to this war, did we?” He answered with his own question, “I knew it as soon as I saw the fifteen thousand behind Jon Snow at the Twins. I kept wondering why we were here.”

“You brought more than you know,” Edric said, “You brought your name. That helped your sister, thanks to you the North doesn’t despise her as much as they would otherwise. But you also brought yourself, and thousands of men, who fought beside northmen. Do you remember the old Flint? How he spoke about wolves and lions marching, that he could’ve never imagined it until he saw it. That’s what you brought.”

“Unity,” Jaime remarked, “It’s a wonderful concept. I doubt it’s achievable in the long term. I doubted it being achievable at all, but Jon Snow proved me wrong.”

“Jon Snow of House Targaryen,” Edric remarked lowly, more to himself than a correction.

“That must be a blow for you,” Jaime said with an understanding smile, “For me, it’s merely entertainment. But for you it’s an identity crisis. You swore yourself on your knees to Jon Snow in front of your whole army, of all our armies, and declared him to be the greatest king that ever was.”

Edric took a deep breath. “It’s a bit of a conundrum.”

“A bit of one,” Jaime nodded, “Certainly smaller than mine. You see, I am here fighting when I should’ve left the North as soon as he declared himself a Targaryen, and I have my sister on the Iron Throne. The North would never accept her, the North that I fight for quite gladly if I am honest. Daenerys Targaryen is itching to remove her. And…” he sighed, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“And?” Edric turned toward him, “and she is your lover, I heard you say before.”

“And she is carrying my child.” Jaime finished his sentence softly, “No, she WAS my lover. Once, for long, but not anymore. Not after what she’s done.”

“It always struck me,” Edric said, “Women. We think ourselves invincible with our swords and lances, but no man would do things as despicable as a woman can do. Women are the end of us.”

Jaime chuckled. “They certainly are.”

“If she is with child,” Edric said softly, “Would you not want to save her?”

“Save Cersei?” Jaime laughed painfully, “No one can save Cersei. It took me years to accept it, perhaps if we could turn back the time to when we were mere babes and be raised by Ned Stark as his bastards. Even then, Cersei would lust for power, it’s in her core. She’s evil. So many people told me, the Queen of Thorns told me, and it took me a march through the north and back and battles against dead men to see it.”

“The child is innocent,” Edric pointed out, “You’ve had three children if the rumours are true, were they as vile as your sister? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Do you have children?” Jaime asked.

“None,” Edric shook his head, “The one I had was born still, killed his mother in the birthing bed. See, I would have use of a functioning cock now that I am made a lord.”

“And you should,” Jaime remarked kindly, “For there is no better reward in this life. You watch them grow, and you wonder what they’ll make of themselves and you try to teach them not to make your mistakes. Yet they aren’t like you at all, they are their own, with their own personalities and they keep surprising you.”

“Joffrey was a monster. As if everything bad in Cersei and my father and all Lannisters through the ages was united in him. I cannot sugar-coat it, he enjoyed torturing people. He enjoyed torturing Sansa Stark. When he died, I was still heartbroken, knowing that he deserved it, that it was inevitable, it didn’t ease it at all. Myrcella was… she was beautiful. She grew into this beautiful lady, when I saw her in Dorne I couldn’t believe my eyes. And she grew smart. I wish she lived, she deserved a chance, but it was taken from her. By Cersei, by my father. Same for Tommen, too naïve to be a match for his own mother, brave enough to end it before it swallowed him wholly. It’s ironic how I was just thinking of them when you approached me, my Lord.”

“I too wish your son lived,” Edric said, “I hear your sister rules after him. It’d be much easier with a weak king if you don’t mind me saying. There’d be a lesser threat of war. And your daughter, perhaps if she lived she would be helping you now. Tying Dorne to you, instead of the Dragon Queen.”

“And where would I be tying Dorne too?” Jaime asked. It became clear, this conversation had a purpose beyond pleasantries.

“That I cannot tell,” Edric said, “I don’t see your mind. I can only tell that returning to your sister isn’t high on your list of priorities. You can’t turn North; my Queen made that clear. You can’t turn South; your own mad Queen surely wouldn’t welcome you back after staying away for so long. Seems to me there is nowhere for you to turn. I can emphasize with that.”

“Sometimes the amount of insight in you surprises me, my Lord,” Jaime said. “So, you see why Jon Snow being a Targaryen is of little significance to me.”

“Perhaps it is of more significance to you than anything else, Ser Jaime,” Edric said with a slight grin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your sister’s days on the Iron Throne are numbered, you know that. If the Dragon Queen takes the throne, you’ll have nowhere to go. It seems to me that unless you mean to die in this war, which I hope you don’t, you need to find a better candidate.”

Jaime looked lengthily into the distance.

“He surrendered his claim,” he whispered.

“Aye, he did,” Edric responded, “I’m told he’s that kind of fool, likes to sacrifice himself.”

“There’s nothing to do about it then,” Jaime said resolutely.

“I’ve also spoken to the Lord Commander and the Tarly boy about him.” Edric began to explain, “Did you know he tried to silence Sam Tarly during the election that made him Lord Commander? He didn’t want it. Then he was elected, and he took it. He was elected because he led them when the wildlings attacked the wall. He led a group north of the Wall to deal with some mutineers as well.”

“He is good at leading, that much is true,” Jaime nodded, “Men follow him, because he inspires them. He gives them purpose.”

Edric smiled, “That is what my Queen said, he gives men purpose. They named him King above her, and she told me he offered her the crown, but she refused it. I don’t think he wants power, not at all. Which is what inspires people I believe. Just think of how uncomfortable he looked when I called him the greatest king that ever was.”

“I often thought of that,” Jaime said smiling, “That you may have spoken truly in that boasting show.”

“Aye, it was a show,” Edric grinned, “But I meant it.”

“He’s a Targaryen,” Jaime pointed out, “He cannot be your king, cannot be king of an Independent North.”

“No, he cannot, but I am not talking about the North,” Edric said, “I am talking about the bloody Seven Kingdoms. He’s the rightful heir.”

“And the one without two dragons and thirty thousand men,” Jaime remarked, “Besides, Seven Kingdoms would include the North. There goes your independence, what you came back to Westeros for.”

“I’ve not figured that out yet,” Edric said, “I’m not a fucking politician. But I know he would be a better choice on that Gods Damned chair of swords, and I know he has a dragon.”

Jaime looked stunned at Edric.

“Aye, I suspect it,” Edric explained, “Dragons chose their rider do they not? The green one had no rider and Ser Davos tells me Jon felt its call. Dragons are intelligent beasts, Ser Jaime. This one broke formation to save Jon Snow at the lake. He burned thousands of wights at White Harbor, and just as I walked toward you, I saw Jon sitting with the dragon.”

“This doesn’t mean the dragon would fight its mother, my lord,” Jaime pointed out the obvious.

“No, it does not, but if his mother turned against his rider, what would the dragon do?” Edric took a deep breath. “I am sure of it, I watched him with the dragon and I am sure of it. Which is why I am speaking to you.”

“I presume you’ll arrive at the point of this conversation now,” Jaime laughed.

“You knew the point of this conversation already,” Edric laughed with Ser Jaime, “You knew it as soon as you mentioned the sight of my forces at the Twins. I swore an oath outside White Harbor and I swore it again outside Winterfell.”

“It seemed to me in Winterfell that you were ready to forsake that vow,” Jaime said.

“Aye, I’m one prone to blindness by my anger,” Edric said lowly.

“What made you change your mind?”

“My Queen opened my eyes,” Edric whispered, “let’s just say I needed a reminder.”

“You mean to serve the White Wolf,” Ser Jaime said. “Why telling me? Why not telling him?”

“Because he forbade any action against his agreement with the Dragon Queen,” Edric said, “And yet, I cannot find a man who is willing to go along. I presume that you aren’t willing either. I mean to offer you a different choice.”

“And you have the authority to offer me a choice,” Jaime asked suspiciously.

“No, I don’t,” Edric chuckled, “I merely act on my own accord, and my Queen has no knowledge of it, truly. But I also command the largest force in the North. You see Ser Jaime, I could turn you in, and you could turn me in. We both would be burned alive I reckon. But if you mean to take that risk, I will take it with you. I’ve seen you fight, you don’t want to fight for your sister. You would want to fight for Jon Snow. Think on it, Ser Jaime, and give me your answer when you have one.”

Edric turned and limped away, and Jaime watched. He tried to reason what just transpired between them. Suddenly, it came to him. He had an answer.

“My Lord,” Jaime called out and Edric turned, grinning. Of course, he knew.

“Don’t say it,” Jaime murmured as he reached him. “What is your plan, and what is my role in it.”

“I have no plan,” Edric said, stunning Jaime. “Not yet. But it seems to me that we are outnumbered. We better begin to gather forces behind us, as any plan would require. And I mean to keep the Lions close, when the dead are defeated.”

“You cannot offer us northern protection,” Jaime hissed.

“No, I cannot offer you anything,” Edric remarked, “Nothing more but a chance to turn this around, same as what I have. It may fail, we need allies, we need a fighting force first of all. Between us we only have twelve thousand at most. We need more, before we can have a plan.”

“Who do you have in mind,” Jaime asked curiously, “It seems to me that there aren’t many allies to recruit.”

“The Tarly boy, he’s the heir of Horne Hill. Does your sister command his men?”

Jaime shook his head, “No but the bulk of their forces were at the Blackwater Rush. This said, Randyll Tarly had a good military mind, I doubt that five thousand is the most he could muster, or that he would’ve so easily declared for my sister with all his might.”

“That is good then,” Edric said, “See, you already have a role. So does the Tarly boy, and he has no love for the Dragon Queen.”

“It won’t be enough,” Jaime pointed out.

“No, it won’t,” Edric agreed. “It’s a start.” He glanced up in the sky, the treeline close to them. “My next choice won’t need much explaining either,” he said lowly, looking straight up a tree. Jaime turned.

The raven took flight, circling above their heads.

“I just hope he’s trustworthy,” Edric declared clearly, “After all, this is what he hoped to achieve is it not?” The raven flew away.

“You knew it was there all along,” Jaime hissed.

“No, I did not,” Edric said, “I merely noticed as I turned after you called after me. But it’s true. Lord Reed would’ve never wanted Jon to give up his claim. He wants to see him on the Iron Throne.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how the last chapter I had to take scenes from later chapters to fill it, and this one doesn't have all its planned scenes because the ones included grew long (and fun!)... that's why I can't tell how many chapters remain exactly.
> 
> On another note - I suck at geography. So Reed's explanation (directed to laymen like me) isn't entirely accurate of the phenomenon that he describes which actually happens in reality, so sorry for that. I didn't want to bore myself with geography research when it was too interesting to write them and their opinions. It's interesting to focus on how they all begin their little plots and schemes and take their stands.... and if anyone thinks the endgame is clear from this - no its not. These are just the first babysteps :)


	37. The Neck III.

 

“We made no plans this afternoon,” Daenerys said, and Jon startled. “Tell me you weren’t dozing off next to my dragon,” she laughed.

“Why, it is rather comfortable,” Jon smiled. He was leaning against Rhaegal’s lowered wing, the dragon curled around him protectively.

“He likes you,” Daenerys said softly, “He truly does. I wonder sometimes if he knew about you and chose you as his rider before I even suggested it.”

Jon didn’t answer. He couldn’t tell whether he wanted to withhold the truth, or he merely felt ashamed of it, or he felt threatened. Because he did feel threatened. It lingered in his mind, whenever he looked at her.

She was somewhat otherworldly to him. The way she carried herself, even when she cried in his arms a few days ago, it was unlike any woman he knew. She had a certain grace about her, not like Sansa – Sansa’s every move was graceful, when she spoke was graceful, she could wear a sack and look graceful and beautiful. Daenerys’ grace was different, and not comparable. She was petite, so petite and she looked fragile to Jon, and Jon remembered how she felt in his arms by the waterfall no matter how hard he tried to forget. She felt fragile. Yet she had willpower that could have matched any man he knew. Her grace was strong, it made men want to fall on their knees in front of her. She was beautiful, that is true, Jon did wonder if she was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, as if he’s seen many women before. He didn’t really have the experience to compare, and that’s where he left that. She wore her silver hair in intricate braids that were fashioned like crowns, and long curls, whenever she wasn’t planning to ride her black dragon. Today it seemed she was planning to, her hair was in a long braid, but the tiny braids were still there. How much work went into creating these formations atop her head, Jon wondered. Perhaps that was Missandei’s role, for the girl from Naath didn’t speak or contribute much else to anyone. She seemed to be close to her Queen, that was all, besides her love affair with the Unsullied leader. A confidante, Jon believed her to be, one who knew the Queen’s mind like no one else. It made him cringe to think of the secrets shared about him.

“May I join you,” she asked dragging him back from his thoughts, “If I don’t disturb your staring at me.”

“Forgive me,” Jon smiled, “I was wondering about your hair.”

She laughed aloud, “My hair?”

“Yes, the braids in your hair. How they always look flawless,” Jon explained as he moved to give her space on his cloak, and she sat.

“It’s Missandei’s doing,” she explained, “She likes fiddling with it.”

“I figured, for it must take hours,” Jon laughed.

“Actually, it doesn’t,” she explained, “Surprisingly it’s quite quick.”

“Do you sleep with braids on your head then?” Jon said amidst his laughter, causing her to laugh louder.

“No, and you better not delve into how I sleep,” she said, feigning the retorting of him.

“Oh no I would never,” Jon said pretending to be sorry. “But now that I think of it, I bet you sleep with intricate braids on your head and those curling ribbons I used to see Lady Catelyn put on Sansa’s head when she was little. And I bet you have some sort of giant knitted sack to wear against this cold, and the furs too.”

“Well there it is,” Daenerys remarked laughing, “You figured me out, Jon Snow!”

Rhaegal purred and moved his head closer to them. Jon felt the dragon’s peace at the scene, calming him just as well. That’s why he sat here in the first place, that’s why he may have dozed off. Rhaegal offered him peace of mind, even calling him with his offer, as if a new level of connection had been established between them at White Harbor. Rhaegal was protective of him, Jon knew. He was just as protective of Rhaegal now, no matter how little protection of him Rhaegal needed. It seemed to him that the dragon merely wanted his company, and he gladly gave it - after all, Rhaegal never pestered him for anything.

“We didn’t make any plans,” Dany repeated, “We’re losing time.”

“That would be my line to say,” Jon smiled, “But you are right. We are losing time.”

“I wondered if I could run an idea past you,” she said, and Jon raised an eyebrow. Why would she consider what he thought was beyond him. She must’ve understood for she began to explain.

“You are the commander of all our forces,” she began, “and you see clearly everyone’s position, you've proven that, you consider all of us. I understand that they don’t want to burn the fort to keep me out later. As if it would keep me out with my dragons. Anyway, there were woodlands to the west of Lord Reed’s lands.”

“Aye, there are,” Jon agreed. "They're still Reed's lands, just not marshes. Those are his slightly more useful lands."

“I still think we could block the kingsroad. The dragons would be able to pull some trees and lift them here. We could burn that.”

“Like a giant pyre,” Jon remarked.

“Yes, something like that,” Dany added, “we could dig up the road, if we have pitch with us we could line trenches, but also we could drop whole trees on the road, in a line from the fort, so they can only go into the marshes.”

“And what would you want from me,” Jon asked.

“Your agreement,” she smiled, “Like I said, you are the commander.”

“Then I say, do it, the more trees the better,” Jon said as he stood, “I can explain to Reed why the rest of his lands will be turned into marshes, though I doubt he would mind that much. He likes his marshes.”

“Does he really eat frogs?” she asked then as she stood as well, watching as Jon shook the cloak to clean whatever dirt he could off it.

“Aye, it’s a fact,” he said, “I mean to try that. There has to be something good in this war, exploring culinary curiosities and seeing Greywater Watch will do it for me.”

“I’m not sure I can eat a frog,” she said lowly, “Though I’ve eaten a horse heart before.”

“Fried or cooked?” Jon asked as he fixed his cloak on his back.

“Neither. Bloody,” she said, and Jon froze.

“Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

“It is tradition,” she explained as they began to walk back. Jon giving a last pet to Rhaegal on his nozzle didn’t escape her attention. “When a Khaleesi is with child, the Khal may seek the blessing of the Dosh Khaleen. The Khaleesi who can eat the heart, well it means the babe is the prophesised khal of khals. Uniting the Dothraki into one Khalasar.”

“You ate the heart?” Jon asked.

“Yes, I did,” she said, “And my stomach gave it back, so I ate it again from my hands.” Jon couldn’t help his own stomach turning at the thought. “It mattered little, I still lost my child and my husband because of that witch. My son will be the stallion who mounts the world, they said. I named him Rhaego.”

“After my father,” Jon whispered.

“Yes, after your father,” she agreed, “I wish I’ve known him.”

“That makes the two of us,” Jon smiled, “I wish I could ask why he didn’t march his armies north and dealt with the dead before they annihilated the freefolk.”

“He couldn’t have known.”

“He knew, Dany”, Jon said bitterly, “He knew, and Maester Aemon knew, that’s why Rhaegar Targaryen chose my mother. Ice and Fire. He wanted to bring about the prophecy of Azor Ahai.”

She sighed, there was nothing to say to this. “When I’m done with the kingsroad, perhaps you and I should talk some more,” she said instead, “about what will come after.”

“No,” Jon’s voice was stern and cold, “I won’t talk about that, so let’s not.”

“But we ought to talk about it,” Dany argued, her voice as soothing as she could make it while the rejection frustrated her.

“No, we don’t,” Jon said, “You have my word, that is all, there is nothing more to say about it.”

She nodded, seeing that their closeness was gone. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to talk about it. She’ll try again. For now, she turned and left him for Drogon. She had work to do, work that she knew none will thank her for. She’s meant to blockade the road to the North, just like Sansa Stark hoped. Daenerys wondered if Sansa Stark will appreciate that Daenerys' own dragons will do her work for her. But she wanted to. Not only because they needed it, but she had to convince Jon Snow. She had to make sure that she erased in his mind her words on that day he revealed who he was. It will take time, she knew that now. He wasn’t angry with her, she knew that as well. That was a start.

Jon Snow is right, she had to admit. They were better to focus on the dead for now. Whatever comes after can be dealt with after. She noticed the men watching her as she walked past, as always. Their eyes were no longer watching the woman. She could see fear in their eyes. She could also see submission. They would never fight her, she thought as Drogon moved from his spot where he was dozing, to welcome her. The thought filled her with a certain satisfaction.

As she climbed atop, she wondered if Jon Snow remembered the waterfall. If he remembered their conversations before, that they could talk without reservations, that their hands could touch. How he’s admitted that he felt the same. Did he feel the same now? Dany knew she did. She remembered that kiss by the waterfall, even if Jon behaved as if he forgot it. So much has happened since. It is true, monarchs don’t marry for love, they don’t even choose whom they love. No one chooses that, really. Dany didn’t love Jon Snow, she knew that, but then again, did she know what love was? She wondered about this ever since he held her crying, and especially since she held him doing the same. He never saw a man more vulnerable, and yet she didn’t judge, in her mind as he stood wiping his face he was the strongest and bravest men she ever met. Perhaps love was accepting the weaknesses of each other, she thought. Perhaps love made people take each other as they came, without any judgement, without any attempt to change them to one's own liking. She wouldn't have admired Drogo crying in her arms, and she felt admiration for Jon Snow doing the same. She leaned close to Drogon, and the dragon took off. They had work to do, she reminded herself. Thoughts of love and Jon Snow could always wait, after all, she had his word. She had him for a whole lifetime to figure it out.

***

The camp buzzed suddenly at the sight of the black dragon, carrying a pine tree that must’ve been centuries old, in its claws, and carrying the Dragon Queen on its back. They stopped what ever they were doing and turned, shouting ‘look!’ and pointing to the sky, as the green dragon appeared with a tree in his claws as well.

Reed walked to Jon, watching as the dragons dropped their load onto the kingsroad just outside the camp, and the earth roared from the impact.

“I take it those are my pine trees,” Reed said bemused.

“Aye, I assumed you won’t mind,” Jon said, “I am sorry I didn’t ask.”

“Forget about it,” Reed looked toward the two trees, “I knew she means it when she asked after them. She needs to burn something doesn’t she?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon turned furiously.

“It was a banter Jon,” Reed laughed it off, “You ought to find your humour.”

“I’ve never had much of it,” Jon hissed, “As I see it, we all are darn disrespectful of what all she gave in this fight. She could burn the whole of the Wolfswood for all I care, if she wishes. If that gives her anything back, for the North truly won’t repay her with kindness.”

“No, they won’t,” Reed agreed, “But you always knew that. You knew that a Targaryen would not be accepted to rule the North, not now, perhaps not ever.”

Jon turned toward Reed, “Then why were you so keen on putting me in that iron chair?”

Reed looked up in the sky as the dragons were nearing once more. “Because you don’t have to be in the North to protect the North, you don’t have to rule it. Although, my initial idea was to put you in that iron chair and have you rule the Seven Kingdoms, as your father surely would’ve wished.”

“I bet the southern six kingdoms have something to say about all these grand plans,” Jon said lowly.

“I bet they do,” Reed watched as a dragon dropped another tree, “How many will they take? I’d rather keep some. I love those trees, you know.”

Jon couldn’t help his laughter, “We are fighting dead men and you worry about your trees!”

“As I said, I love those trees,” Reed smiled in return, “Like you love the godswood of Winterfell. Did you know that there is no godswood in the Neck?”

“You have no weirwoods,” Jon remarked, “Then how come you seem closer to the Old Gods than any of us?”

“Because faith doesn’t have to rely on relics, Jon,” Reed explained softly, “Faith is within you. It grows if you nurture it, if you pay attention. If you accept whenever it doesn’t hand you your wishes on silver platters. And,” he grinned, “I am quite close to the oldest group of weirwoods, you know? I used to travel to the Gods Eye. That’s where I converse with the Gods.”

“Some believe that’s where their hearts are,” Jon said more to himself, “The Children of the Forest believed so.”

“It’s a magical place, and an island in the middle of a lake so easy for me to admire. When you’re there, it feels like you’re at the heart of everything. Having faith is easy there.”

Jon smiled at that, “It is never easy having faith.”

“No, I wouldn’t think it ever was,” Reed said, “Not for you. At times it wasn’t easy for me either. But then I would go there and sit in the shade of the weirwoods and think about what made it so hard. And I would always arrive at the same conclusion, that it was me. My fighting whatever I was fighting at the time.”

“You aren’t that much of a fighter,” Jon remarked with a grin.

“No, not with a sword,” Reed nodded laughing, “Give me a trident and I’ll be much better. But there are different kind of fights. There are those that you cannot defeat with a sword, and those are much harder to defeat.”

“If we defeat them at all,” Jon whispered.

“Aye, if we defeat them,” Reed smiled, watching Jon, “Sometimes it is not about defeating them, Jon. Sometimes it is about accepting them. There are things we cannot defeat, ever.”

“Why do I feel like you are giving me a lesson, Howland,” Jon looked up at the one-armed man, his heart clenching at the sight of his left sleeve tucked up.

“Because I am,” Reed said, “And you are smart enough to recognise that. You were born to be something, and you cannot be anything else. It is not within our power to change our blood. Did I ever tell you why I was eager to fight beside Ned? I wanted to be a knight, I grew up a crannogman and I despised it. I thought of my people as dimunitive half-humans with despicable habits living in mud and the like, and poor, I thought us so poor compared to just about everyone else. I wanted to be a knight of the kingsguard, much like your brother Bran dreamed of it when he was little. I even planned it when Robert Baratheon won, I meant to ask him. Thank goodness for Ned for asking me to join his company after the Trident and I never considered it again.”

“I never knew this,” Jon said.

“No, I am not proud of it to share,” Reed remarked, “If you ask me now, in my rare moment of sharing, I learned a lot from my own son in that regard. I came home and I read that damned diary, and I sat with those pine trees the Dragon Queen is unearthing from my lands, and I thought a lot. And I wed, because it was expected of me, and I had a son. I've never seen a seeer like him, Jon. I heard what Ned used to say about me, I tell you my son was ten times better at anything than me. The things Jojen could do... A father shouldn't envy his brood but by the gods I envied it, many times. And he thought me who I was, that the blood I had and gave him made him who he was. I learned to respect my roots, just as you learned to respect yours much more after your stint at the Nights Watch pretending to be rootless. We all want to break free from our shackles, sooner or later. Some of us can, to an extent become more than we were intended to become, but none of us ever could break free from our roots. Not even whinging Cerwyn could deny the North in him, and neither could you or I, even if we wanted to. But you are also something else. You were born to be something else. The sooner you stop fighting it the better it will be for you. That’s the lesson.”

“I gave up my claim,” Jon whispered, “I gave my word. That means something to me.”

“Aye, you did,” Reed smiled. “You never wanted what you were born to be, you never wanted any of this. You weren’t raised to want anything in this life.”

“And what would you have me do,” Jon hissed, “She is my family, are you turning against me as well now, because of her? She isn’t as bad as you all think her to be, not even close.”

“I know that, Jon,” Reed said kindly, “I know all of this. I know she has a kind heart, and I know she is the only one of your father’s kin besides yourself. You should protect her.”

“Protect her from whom,” Jon grabbed Reed’s right arm, “If you know anything, you ought to tell me now.”

“From herself, Jon,” Reed said. “Because she is also striving to become someone she wasn’t to be, she is reaching too high.”

“She was born to rule,” Jon said, letting go of the man’s arm in front of her, turning toward the road where the dragons just dropped a load of trees again.

“Perhaps she was,” Reed said, “Perhaps she was to wed that mad brother of hers, or to wed you or Rhaegar's firstborn, perhaps she was to be a queen all along. Targaryens married among themselves since the times of Old Valyria, to keep their dragonblood pure. I never knew Rhaegar, but your blood isn’t purely dragon. He would’ve wed you to her I presume, because of her blood being pure. I cannot know, just as I cannot know what her reason was to arrive in this world, for the world has changed by the time you and her were born. Robert Baratheon should’ve never won on the Trident.”

“We agree on that part,” Jon said, “But not the marriage part. She can’t have children. A marriage with her would mean the end of my father’s house, everything he died for and everything she fought for would be undone.”

“I haven’t counselled you to wed her, Jon,” Reed smiled, “I merely said perhaps that was once the grand plan of the Gods. Who knows?”

“Bran would know,” Jon whispered, “Bran could see everything. Sam told me, when he told Bran of my father’s marriage Bran could simply go and see it.”

“It surprises me that he would’ve never gone to see how the Night King was born, or how to defeat him,” Reed said, accepting the change of topic. Jon’s mind can only be hammered so much, he thought. Jon should never be led on, he has to learn it himself. Reed wanted him to learn it himself. To be his own man, never somebody’s pawn. Yes, others were planning, but for him this was different. He accepted it, but he wanted Jon to make his decisions by himself, and if he didn’t, Reed would accept that as well. He didn’t spend years sitting under weirwood trees wondering about his mistake sheltering Jon with lies, whenever he wasn’t planning on revealing the lie for what it was, to now force Jon to bend to his will. He loved the young man he met in Jon. He was proud of him, almost like a father would be proud of his own son, to the point that it surprised Howland Reed. Perhaps he was dealing with the loss of Jojen the same manner that Jon once told him Ser Davos was dealing with his loss of a son. But he would never again try to curtail Jon, he thought. Then he hoped that he will never have to go back on that thought.

“Sam was looking for something about it in the library,” Jon said then. His eyes lit up, “Sam would know. Whatever Bran knew, Sam would know.” With that he rushed away, to find Samwell Tarly.

***

“You have no love for her,” Edric said.

“She burned my father and brother alive,” Sam retorted, “Of course I have no love for her. But Jon does, Jon likes her. It’s not my place to decide anything else.”

“And what would you do if Jon raised his claim against her?”

Sam laughed, “You don’t know Jon Snow, my lord,” he said, “He gave his word. Jon Snow never goes back on his word.”

“But would you support him?” Edric found this really hard, how to gain support from this boy without telling him anything?

“Of course I would,” Sam said, “I would welcome it, any day. But that ship has sailed.”

“What ship,” Jon asked, stepping into the tent. Sam looked confused, panicked, at Jon, at Edric, back at Jon.

“The ship of you claiming the Iron Throne,” Edric said, saving Sam from the lie. He could not be a good liar, not even a bad one, from the look on his face.

“Is THAT really what you two are talking about,” Jon hissed.

“I enquired after his opinion,” Edric stepped aside in the small tent, turning toward its entrance, “And now I take my leave.” He rushed out of the tent.

“What was that about,” Jon asked sitting down beside Sam.

“Exactly what he told you,” Sam shrugged it off, “He asked me of my opinion about the Dragon Queen, and he asked me if I would’ve supported you had you raised your claim. But you gave your word to Daenerys, I told him that.”

Jon nodded. He couldn’t fathom why Edric of all people would enquire about such things. It didn’t matter, he came to discuss things of far greater importance.

“Sam, did Bran ever tell you what he knew about the Night King?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, “He didn’t know much, Jon,” he said kindly, “He couldn’t see. When he returned to Winterfell, and then you returned, he couldn’t see anymore. He told me what little he stumbled upon while he was beyond the wall and I tried to find more about it, but I didn’t.”

“Tell me what he told you, Sam,” Jon leaned forward, ready to listen.

“The Night King was a man once, once of the first men. He was captured and held on an island, tied to a weirwood. The children came and stuck a shard of dragonglass into his heart, and he turned. That’s all Bran knew.”

“On an island tied to a weirwood,” Jon repeated. “The God’s Eye, Reed just told me it is a small island.”

“Aye it is,” Sam’s eyes lit up, “It is quite beautiful really. My father took Dickon and me once to see. It didn’t mean much to me but there are weirwoods there, my father told me they are older than our Andal ancestors on Westeros.”

“He must’ve turned on his creators then,” Jon thought aloud, “I remember Bran saying, he was created to defeat the first men. But he took it as defeating men. He wants to rule over a darkness without life.”

Sam nodded, “I haven’t found anything, there isn’t much about the children of the forest in the libraries anyway. Perhaps in the Citadel, but it seems I stole the wrong books.”

Jon laughed, “Sam the burglar. You helped me, but you should’ve told me this before.”

“I am sorry,” Sam looked down as he spoke, “I didn’t think it meant anything. After all we know dragonglass kills them.”

“That is interesting, isn’t it,” Jon remarked, “He was created by dragonglass and that's what can break his magic.”

“He has dragonglass in his heart,” Sam added. “Perhaps that is why he is so evil. Cold black glass where his heart should be, binding him to an immortal life in a dead body. It is cruel, in a way.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for him Sam,” Jon smiled, “I mean to kill him.”

 

 

 

 


	38. Greywater Watch I.

Jon could almost convince himself that they weren’t in any real danger at all, that it was but only a game, they were playing at war. Like an enormous exercise at strategy. Once the Dothraki, the knights of the Vale and the Unsullied left, and the Lions marched off shortly after, it was much easier to believe that.

Daenerys ordered Grey Worm in front of everyone to uphold the peace in what they now called the southern camp. Apart from Davos, Jon and Howland Reed, no one believed that she meant it. Jon could tell. Something was in the air, he could feel it crawling on his skin, itching away at his mind, and he couldn’t figure what it was. Sam he couldn’t blame, his friend didn’t forgive the Dragon Queen for torching his despicable father and, from what Jon could tell, brainwashed brother into ash. Sansa and Arya he couldn’t blame either, when they weren’t upholding northern interests, they simply despised the queen for her marriage plans for Jon. That was something Jon couldn’t even think of.

He did try to imagine once, how it would work. He would be ordered to marry someone – hopefully a comely young woman, but who knows, names mattered more than looks he presumed, and he couldn’t name a single woman his age who had the right name. Sam had a sister, whatever her name, and Jon recalled a Martell too, daughter of another Martell who lives in Essos or something. He was certain that his bride would not be from the North, and that she would be from a major house. That left only that Martell girl if she actually existed. He’d be arranged to marry her, and then he would have to lay with her. The only woman he ever laid with was Ygritte. He couldn’t imagine doing the things he did to Ygritte, to a girl he felt nothing for. It seemed disgusting. But then again, Lord Eddard didn’t know Lady Catelyn, in truth she was to marry his older brother. And they seemed to have grown to love each other, so perhaps Jon would grow to love whomever he is wed to. Or, they would hate each other, and it would be like the seventh of hells. Either way, he would have to sire children, sons preferably. Not just one, anything can happen to a single son, he would need at least two of them. And considering the odds of 50/50, he would probably have more children, he would have daughters. Meaning, he would grow old and his face would grow weary by the time he fulfilled his duties. His life would be almost over. It wasn’t too appealing, even though he never planned to do anything with his life. But knowing that it was all planned out this way wasn’t appealing at all. He reasoned that it wasn’t his choice, and he wondered if he would do the same. Reluctantly at first, he did think about what it would be like if he was still the rightful heir. If he was to sit on the Iron Throne, as his father would’ve sat on it had he not been slain at the Trident by Robert Baratheon. It was an interesting concept, one that first seemed alien but the more he thought about it, the more intriguing it became. Not because he wanted it, but because it seemed so normal compared to his current prospects. Even though he had to admit, his current prospects didn’t differ much from the prospects he would’ve had, was he proclaimed king once more. He would still have to marry for an alliance, and he considered himself intelligent enough to see that his choice would have to come from the south. It seemed that all paths lead to that Martell girl, even though was it his choice, it didn’t seem half as much a burden than it felt now that it was demanded of him.

He did wonder if, was he king, he could choose from the North. He would choose Sansa. He didn’t ponder on why Sansa, it seemed an obvious choice. She had the name, she was beautiful none could deny that, and she knew a thing or two about ruling. Some viewed her as an incredibly smart woman – Jon didn’t. Jon saw her as someone who was willing to learn from her misfortunes, to better herself, resulting in her capability to rule. And Sansa loved him, or at least at some point she did, because Jon wasn’t so sure now. He still wore her favour, but the times when they could talk freely were long gone. They were distant, they almost never spoke privately anymore.

He watched as the men erected some palisades on a patch of land. They were slowly progressing through the marshlands, leaving groups of men behind, wolves and northmen, archers of the freefolk, and always a couple crannogmen with them. They were to lead their groups south and safely out of the marshlands, they had orders not to fight, and the others had orders to protect the crannogmen. It may have seemed unfair, but after the first two groups the men seemed to accept it easier – that was because the terrain grew treacherous enough for them to realise that protecting the crannogmen was their only way to survive this.

Jon wondered about the crannogmen for the first time since they began their preparations, and that was only this morning, after Daenerys so successfully barricaded the kingsroad yesterday afternoon. They all seemed so frail to him, similarly to Reed himself. They were short men, and somewhat bony too, had long faces and short hair and beard. They all had beards like Reed, short beards. That amused Jon, because he remembered Winterfell before they all left it. Lord Eddard used to tie his hair behind his head, and wore it shoulder length. Apart from Ser Rodrik who had a thing for his unusual beard arrangement, tying it under his chin, most men took to mimic Lord Eddard. The realisation was almost ironic, men mimicked their lord. Jon also wore his hair tied behind his back, though for him it seemed functional, it was either this or to cut it and he couldn’t imagine cutting it, but it was way too unruly to just let it loose, and long enough to tie it now that there was no Lady Catelyn ordering him to have it cut.

The crannogmen were swift and agile folk, they moved not dissimilarly to lizards when they run into the shade from sunlight, and finally, they began to carry tridents on their backs. That was the first real curiosity to Jon. Tridents looked more like tool to plough the fields to him. He couldn’t wait to see what these small men could do with their tridents. It seemed like a different world, as if they weren’t in the North anymore. Jon wished Bran and Robb could see this. It was a magical land hidden where only crannogmen could find their way around. The vegetation grew denser as they progressed, and they kept having to pull men out of mud that seemed to want to swallow anyone who took a misstep into it. Reed showed him, throwing a piece of stone that seemed too heavy for him to even lift in Jon’s eyes. The stone sat atop the surface, only sinking slightly into the dense mud from the impact. It waited for a few moments but then it began to sink, and Jon’s eyes grew wide. It was as if the mud slowly opened under it, a crater grew, and it sank into it, until its top wasn’t visible anymore and then the crater closed above it. Jon wondered how many skeletons sat n the mud, and even more so, if the Night King’s magic could lift them out and awaken them. He mentioned that to Reed, and Reed merely nodded saying they may fight corpses covered in mud soon enough, for there were many, strangers mainly but even crannog folk who weren’t careful.

It didn’t take long for the first man to fall victim of the mud. He tried to get out and it seemed the more he moved the quicker he sank. A few crannogmen rushed to help, shouting to be still. When the man listened, the mud slowed in its swallowing of him. Then they handed in a thick branch, and the man held onto it. They began to slowly pull him, still ordering him to be still, don’t try to help. Wolves helped, and slowly the man was dragged out of the mud. Reed told Jon never to wander alone, always have a few with him – in case one of them takes the wrong step. It seemed to Jon that they all began to appreciate Reed’s folk more and more by each hour.

Reed also sent men forth to greywater Watch. Jon asked why, and Reed merely said, preparations and hunt. Hunt for what? Food. Reed said he had plans, and Jon didn’t enquire further. The sky was beginning to turn into shades of violet when they reached a long patch of land, and Reed ordered the men to make camp. There was only about a thousand of them now, the rest were already dispersed. A few dinghies awaited on the water, men wearing wests with black lizards on them standing by each. Reed ushered them into the dinghies, and Jon couldn’t control his grinning, watching as all of them settled in the small boats, the irony of it all not escaping him as he watched the groups of three forming, clearly based on preference wherever possible – He sat with Davos and Sam, Edd sat with Edric and Jaime Lannister, Glover sat with Cerwyn and the Hound – a perfect pairing in Jon’s eyes, he laughed aloud as he saw the Hound jump onboard that boat. Sansa and Arya shared a boat with Brienne. Daenerys had Jorah and Missandei for company. Reed was in a separate dinghy, with Theon and his own men, leading the way. It seemed impossible to Jon to cross the river, the branches of willows entangled with the vegetation and reached out forming archways that seemed way too low, and he could see seaweed in the river. The crannogmen sat at the back of the boats and used wooden sticks instead of oars, the sticks were thick, carved, and it seemed to Jon they were long, very long as well. They must’ve reached the bottom of the river, for there seemed to be no other way to direct the boats. And the men seemed to be masters of this art of guiding the small boats exactly through each opening among the branches of willows.

He couldn’t ignore the scenery, it was a marvel. He saw birds, beavers, and frogs, countless of frogs. Fish were frequently crossing under the boat in groups. It seemed to Jon that this was the most magical land he will ever see, that nature truly ruled here untouched and undisturbed, and he couldn’t imagine how Reed could’ve ever considered wanting to leave this place. All he could hear was birdsong, all he could see was greenery, the thickness of which hid the sky above them, and when it found an opening the intense tones of amber and violet shone through like gems.

He didn’t think it could get any better. He found that his mind was set at ease by the sounds of nature, the sound of silence only disturbed by the water as the boats slowly passed by, by birds and frogs singing. Some of the frogs mimicked the colours of the sky, Jon never saw anything like them. He wanted to reach out to touch one but the crannogman hissed behind him, so he pulled back his hand. The man only shook his head to indicate that it was better not to. He reminded himself to ask Reed why.

The men in Reed’s boat ahead began to pull nets into the boat, with fish in them as they progressed, and Jon couldn’t help but feel as if the war was years away, as if it was peacetime watching the scene. He reminded himself that he will have to come back here in peacetime. Perhaps Daenerys will allow a visit, for Jon felt that if he could, he would never want to leave this place, he had to return one day.

The boat ahead took a sharp turn at a stone protruding from the water, and then another, and another. As his boat followed he realised how treacherous the water was here. The man behind him holding the stick seemed to put all his strength into directing the boat now, and he could see sharp stones in the water, surrounding the narrow path they took. This place was impregnable to anyone who didn’t know how to reach it, Jon understood now why Reed said so.

Suddenly as they passed the third stone, the water stilled, the path widened. They slowly proceeded around a patch of land covered in willows that must’ve been centuries old, and as they turned Jon saw it for the first time. Greywater Watch. The patch of land with the willows was where it stood, the land must’ve been the one that was in fact floating. Greywater Watch seemed small, and yet it seemed enormous. It was built of wood, old wood greyed in sun and by water, the keep itself seemingly consisting of small tower like structures neatly built next to each other, sharing walls. There were ramparts on the top, and tiny windows. Jon smiled to see curtains in some. Women lived here too, albeit they were not here now. This was a home, Reed’s home. Jon looked behind him and noted that he wasn’t the only one in awe. All their faces mirrored his own, jaws dropped, eyes wide at the wonder that was Greywater Watch.

The men sent ahead waited at the small pier at the front, first taking the fishing nets, then one helping Reed. The boat moved away, and Jon’s took its place, and Jon found he indeed needed help to get out of the boat. He walked off the small pier and watched the rest of them arriving, laughed as Arya fell back at a sudden wave, staring at him angrily. Cerwyn also fell back on his backside but there was no wave that time, and all of them laughed. Jon wondered how carefree this all was, how all their faces showed nothing but content.

“This place is magical,” Daenerys stepped next to him, and he nodded with a smile.

“If you all would please follow,” an old man – with a considerably longer beard than the rest of them, Jon noted to himself – asked behind them, and they all turned. Jon took in the sight. Small palisade with a wooden gate, open wide. A courtyard beyond it, and doors, many doors into wooden halls and buildings, and corridors between those, and past the corridors he could see more doors.

“My lord has asked that baths be drawn for you and we did what we could to prepare your chambers,” the men said as they began to follow.

“We’ll have chambers?” Arya asked stunned.

“Yes, Lady Stark, albeit we don’t have as grand a chamber as we would wish to house you in,” the men smiled. “Greywater Watch is rather small and not used to house so illustrious a company, but I honestly hope you will all feel at home and enjoy your time here after your troubles.”

“How come you are here,” Lord Cerwyn spoke, “Didn’t you have to evacuate?”

“A few of us stayed,” the man said, glancing at Jon, “I wish good luck to any dead men trying to impregnate Greywater Watch. We stayed because if the dead reach us, we intend to teach them how the living fight crannog style.”

“Says a man older than my grandfather,” Cerwyn said and Jon shot an angry look, but the man just laughed.

“My lord, I am possibly half as old as you think me to be,” he said, “we don’t age well I would say, perhaps the life on the water is the cause of it. I would not underestimate myself to be an old and weary man, with a trident in my hand I can be a fighter as good as any of your swordsmen.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Jon smiled.

“This door here,” The man said pointing at the large red door, “This is where you are to come once you are finished with your baths, to have supper. There is no great hall here, this is the lord’s solar as you would call it.”

“Will we eat frogs,” Missandei whispered in shock and the man laughed.

“Aye, my lady,” he said, “And you will like it! But in case you would not, there’ll be other delicacies as well.”

“What is that?” Sansa asked.

“Squirrel.” All the men burst out in laughter, Jon included. Squirrel, the delicious alternative to frogs. They truly were in Crannogland.

“There’ll be quail’s eggs as well, we didn’t catch the quails though.”

“Do not worry,” Jon said, “Whatever warm food we get we’ll be fine. I for one look forward to eat a frog’s leg.”

They were led right on the corridor, the man merely opened doors into those little towers, ushering them in. They had the option to share in pairs, and Daenerys opted to share her chamber with Missandei, and Sansa with Arya, to Jon’s surprise. The Hound of course didn’t share. Edric didn’t either, and Edd nodded to Sam. Jon wanted to ask Davos but the old man shook his head, so he didn’t. Ser Jorah asked Davos instead, and Jon wasn’t surprised that Cerwyn and Glover each took a lodging to themselves. The next chamber the man ushered Jaime Lannister in when Theon wanted to enter.

“Lord Greyjoy,” the man said, “there’s something for you in the next one.”

Jon couldn’t help but admire Reed for that. Theon had a room with a tapestry above the bed. It depicted a scene Jon could not have recognised, but Theon’s eyes grew wild with awe when he saw it.

“That is Nagga,” he pointed at it, “a sea dragon. This is the Grey King, he defeated Nagga. It’s legendary among the Ironborn.”

Theon turned and thanked the old man, who closed the door.

“You never shared your name,” Jon said.

“No, your grace,” the man smiled, “It’s just Quagg. My mother gave me a southern name that I dispensed with a very long time ago. I am just called Quagg.”

“That was kind of you, and Howland, to show Theon that tapestry,” Jon nodded with a smile. “And I am not a king.”

“Oh, but you are, to us,” Quagg said, “I’ve sat with my lord many times in the woods, as we discussed you. We knew of you for a long time, here. You are at home here, Jon Targaryen.”

“It does feel homely,” Jon whispered, the name he was called not escaping him.

“Has my Lord ever told you that he wanted to take you here?”

Jon shook his head with wide eyes as the man opened the door in front of him. “Aye, my lord Howland wanted to snatch you away from Winterfell. You were a little boy, and the Lord Eddard refused to tell you who you were. We agreed that we would raise you. But honour got the better of us. It was a crazy plan. I wish we did it, but lord Howland didn’t want to bad blood with lord Ned.”

“How many men stayed behind, Quagg?”

“I ask for your forgiveness for disobeying your command,” Quagg said instead, but Jon shook his head. He didn’t mind. “We stayed behind because we would be useless in the mainland. We aren’t swordsmen. We are fighters of our own, our tridents and our nets and our bronze daggers and our arrows do more than that army of yours, here, we can fight. Take us out onto the field and we are dead men. Lord Howland wasn’t happy about it, mind you, but we convinced him. For the better I say, for you are here, your fancy folk are here. You have need of us here, now.”

“You poison your arrows, I heard,” Jon said.

“Aye, we do,” Quagg grinned, “though I doubt it would prove useful against the dead.”

“No, but there are others than the dead, Quagg,” Jon said firmly, “When we leave, you must begin poisoning your arrows. I doubt the dead will ever reach Greywater Watch, but the same cannot be said for the living. Whomever comes from the south, you must bleed them dry.”

“And so we shall,” Quagg declared, “Lord Howland said the same, mind you. When he left us he said, whomever comes without him or you is an enemy and must not cross the Neck.”

With that, Quagg bowed to Jon deeply and closed the door.

The chamber was small, really small, albeit much larger than for example Theon’s with his single bed and little table and chair and tub. Jon’s lodging had a large bed, looking rather inviting in furs and linen with cushy pillows, and above the pillows hung a tapestry. It depicted two dragons in the sky. Jon chuckled at the reference, certainly Reed’s doing, again. Another tapestry, much larger hung above the bench opposite the bed, and it depicted pine trees. Northern woodland. In the middle stood a lonely weirwood. Someone must be really good at making tapestries here, Jon thought. He had his own hearth, while most of the towers he saw had but a small chimney, and he had a pair of large chairs by the hearth. They reminded him of the nights spent with Sansa sitting by the fire. He had a window, noting to himself smiling that it was the one he saw from the boat, delicate lace curtain hanging to the floor in front of it, and heavy curtains on its side. There were a few oars, a shield on the wall. Above the hearth he noticed two metal claws. He took Blackfyre from his belt and placed it on them – they were perfect fit. This was meant to be his room Jon realised. As if Reed knew that one day Jon will arrive here.

The bath was hot, soothing. Some kind of leaves were thrown into the water, and it seemed slightly greenish to Jon, surely from the leaves. It also smelled somewhat foreign, but as he sat into it, it soothed every bit of him. The leaves must’ve been the cause of that but when he finally convinced himself to leave the tub, he felt as if he slept for weeks, rested, energised. His mind was more alert.

He took the clothing laid out, soft linen long shirt and breeches and long fur west, and to his surprise, what seemed to be furry soft leather boots, and left for the room with the red door.

***

Daenerys still chuckled at her unusual garment when she left her room. Missandei dozed off in a chair, and Daenerys wanted to explore this magical place. This was the home of Lord Howland Reed. What a unique place, she thought, as if magic lingered in the air everywhere. So simple, like the garments she wore, knitted thighs and furry leather boots and linen skirt and long fur west. As she stepped out onto the corridor, cold breeze hit her but to her surprise, no shiver came. The corridor was closed off from the outside, as she looked up she could see thatched roof above. Firepits were hanging off it, metal orbs with fire in them, casting a gentle and unruly light along the path. She adored this place. From the soft linens on her body to the soft glow of the fire orbs, the smell of wood and salty water mixed with the herbs that coloured her bathwater and their spicy smell clung to her skin, she adored everything. She envied Lord Reed, noting to herself with a smile, to have a place like this to call home.

She gently opened the red door, and to her surprise there was only Reed himself. He wore a garment not unlike her own.

“Good, you found the linens,” Reed noted looking up from the fire, “I was hoping such things need no explanation. Your garments will be washed for tomorrow.”

“It is very kind,” Daenerys said, “and very comfortable. Is this how your people dress?”

“In the keep, mainly,” Reed said, “Comfort is high on our list of priorities. We live very simply, your grace. We hunt, and we do our fishing and the like, and work on the keep, and other than that there isn’t much to do but sit by the fire.”

“I have a beautiful tapestry in my room,” Daenerys said, “I believe it depicts Aegon with Balerion the Dread.”

“My wife’s work,” Reed said softly, “That and the linens and furs you wear. We have trunks upon trunks of tapestries and embroideries and linens. She used to make them without counting. She would read a book and think of a scene and make a tapestry of it that took her six turns of the moon, and then she would find another to do. That’s all she’s done when not raising my children.”

“I hope to meet her one day, lord Reed,” Daenerys said softly, “seeing that tapestry meant a lot to me. It’s the first sign of my ancestors that I’ve seen on Westeros, apart from Dragonstone. I would want to thank her for making tapestries of dragons.”

“My wife has passed, your grace,” Reed said softly, his voice void of any pain, but full of acceptance. “A few years past, a fever took her not long after Jojen and Meera left to find Bran Stark.”

“To find Bran Stark,” Daenerys repeated, “You mean, the boy in the wheelchair? Were they your children? Forgive me if I ask too much, my lord…”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Reed smiled, “In truth I am glad for some time alone with you. I was just thinking of you when you came.”

He stood and poured a goblet of wine that he handed to her, and gestured toward the chair next to him by the table.

“Do you know what a greenseeer is, your grace?”

“Is that like warging,” Daenerys asked, “I know you can enter ravens’ minds, so you are a warg.”

“A greenseeer is different. Those are dreams, much harder to interpret than what a bird sees. Bran Stark was a greenseeer. My son Jojen, he was a greenseeer unlike any other. He could tell the future. He told me of Bran Stark escaping Winterfell, he and Meera went to get him. Jojen must’ve seen something on the way for they never returned. I only learned of their journey when I saw Meera upon my arrival at Winterfell and years have passed in between.”

“Their journey,” Daenerys asked, “I heard they were beyond the wall.”

“Yes, they were looking for Bloodraven. The previous Three Eyed Raven, and, one could also call him your blood, Brynden Rivers he was called once, bastard of Aegon IV. They found him in a cave in the Lands of Always Winter. Meera told me that is where Jojen died. The dead got to him.”

“I am so sorry,” Daenerys took his hand in her own, “I know what it’s like to lose a child, I am sorry.”

“I know you know,” Reed smiled, “Rhaego, that was the name you gave to your son, is that right?”

“Has Jon told you?”

“No, your grace,” Reed leaned close on the chair, “I have my abilities. But I admit, I was merely listening, I was up on a tree nearby.”

Daenerys laughed, “It is such an interesting concept, warging. I suppose none has privacy from you.”

“I didn’t intend to invade your privacy, your grace,” Reed said kindly, “I am merely protecting Jon.”

“Does he need protection?” Daenerys was surprised, as much as she felt appreciation toward Reed, and strangely enough, she felt nothing about his overhearing of her conversation with Jon.

“In my eyes, yes,” Reed’s smile was soft, loving as he spoke of Jon, “You may not see it that way, but Jon is little older than my son was, not even two namedays between them, for one reason. And Jon for long have been at the center of life here. If it depended on me, he would’ve grown up here knowing who he was, preparing for who he must become.”

“The prince that was promised,” Daenerys asked suspiciously, “or the king of the seven kingdoms?”

“Both,” Reed sighed, “We are a strange group of people your grace. For long all I knew about you was that you survived. I saw you once, in Pentos. You lived in a merchant’s home with your brother, tall and lean, silver hair to his shoulders. Wild eyes. One look and I knew his coin landed on the downside.”

Daenerys chuckled, “Once again you mention Essos. What does a Crannogman do in Essos?”

“Travel,” Reed grinned, “See what the world has become. Knowledge is power, your grace. I wanted to know things, find out the information I needed to one day help Jon. I wish I found out more. I wish I’ve met you then, but I’ve never ventured as far as Meereen. And you probably would’ve never received me.”

“I would have,” she said softly, “I would have because you are from Westeros. You want Jon on the Iron Throne.”

“I did, I won’t deny it, your grace. He is the rightful heir. I know it’s what you worked for all your life, and from that perspective, this is unfair, to throw at you just when your goal is within your reach. But he is the heir, he is the son of your elder brother. None of us can change that, not even Jon no matter how he tries to. I am not saying this to convince you of anything.”

Dany took a deep breath, “You could not convince me to give up on it,” she said, “I am sorry.”

“It is good then that I would not try to,” Reed smiled, “We are merely two people having an honest conversation. I value the opportunity to have that.”

“If we are speaking honestly,” Dany looked straight into his eyes, “Tell me where I am failing. I am trying to prove myself and I am failing. Apart from what I see, that I don’t have advisors like Jon does, people who know the common folk and their values, tell me where else I am failing.”

“You are not failing,” Reed took her small hand in his for reassurance as he spoke, “You are doing the right things. Perhaps threatening the North in your anger so publicly wasn’t right, but none of us can always do the right thing. The problem is not you, your grace. Remember when I told you that your goal won’t bring you happiness? It’s not your fault, not at all.”

“Then who is responsible?”

“Fate,” Reed whispered, “The Old Gods and the New Gods and the Lord of Light and the Drowned God, whichever God you wish to put in charge. Your fate is against you. A Targaryen princess born on Dragonstone and taken straight to Essos, you are a foreigner. Like you say you don’t know the land, the people and the customs. You have three dragons and tens of thousands of troops, and you come for the Iron Throne. To conquer. You could be anyone, in such circumstances. You could be your brother Viserys, or you could be any other made-up lord from Essos craving the rich lands of Westeros, it doesn’t matter who you are.”

“I don’t understand,” Dany said lowly, “My father was the king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Aye, the worst king it ever had, that’s not going to do you any good. What I am saying is, think of the Westerosi who allied themselves with you, has any of them ever chose you and gave you their armies and support only for you?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. The Greyjoys came because they lost their home to their uncle and needed my help to reclaim it. The Sands came because I was to fight Cersei Lannister and they wanted to be part of it. The Queen of Thorns came to my side for the same. Even Lord Varys and Tyrion came because they had to leave Westeros. Ser Jorah was an exiled knight and tasked to spy on me, albeit he turned his back to that a long time ago. Only Ser Barristan came to serve me for me.”

“Did he?”

“He said so.”

“Ser Barristan was of the kingsguard, he fought on the Trident besides Rhaegar Targaryen. When the battle was lost, and Robert Baratheon was proclaimed king, he was given a choice – to join Rhaegar in death or swear his oath to Robert. The kingsguard is for life, much like the Nightswatch, and Ser Barristan was dismissed from the Kingsguard after serving Robert for twenty years, despite how close he must’ve been to your brother, Jon’s father. He had little else to do, your grace. He wanted revenge, like anyone else.”

“You don’t want revenge,” she whispered.

“No, but I don’t serve you,” Reed squeezed her hand, “I don’t even serve Jon, at least he never made that official. I suppose I do serve Jon, but my allegiance is with House Stark.”

“Why?”

“Because ages ago a Stark defeated the last Marsh King and wed his daughter, in short,” Reed smiled. “Because we are of the north.”

“Jon is not,” she countered.

“He is the son of Lyanna Stark,” Reed explained, “He may have been born in Dorne, but he was raised in the North. And people chose to follow him for him, not because of their own revenge.”

“I thought they all hated the Boltons,” she pointed out.

“Aye, we all did, but not many he asked have joined him against them. They only named him king after he defeated the Boltons. The White Wolf, that’s what Lord Glover named him.”

“Lord Glover who often and publicly goes against him.”

“He has the habit of that,” Reed grinned, “And Cerwyn too.”

“Whinging Cerwyn,” Daenerys laughed, “He’s really a coward, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and both of them are still more accepted than you could ever be,” Reed said softly, “It is not your fault. Your past is not your fault. But it is the reason why you’ll never be accepted for yourself. You may gain the Iron Throne, you can do it if you want to, but you’ll never be accepted. The south is the same that way, perhaps not as headstrong as the North though the Roynar are not dissimilar to us in that regard, except they have more thirst for power. Have you ever thought of what comes after you won the Iron Throne?”

“I will rule,” she declared, “I always planned that I will rule, but I never thought of how. Jon says it’s bad omen to plan ahead before battle.”

“If I may indulge you in what I think will happen?”

She nodded. “The Riverlands will likely be reclaimed by Edmure Tully, Sansa’s uncle, if he hasn’t done so already. He’s a stupid man and a coward, but he has honour. The Vale is ruled by a sickly, half-mad boy, who lost his best chance at becoming decent with Bronze Royce gone. The Reach will see infighting, the Tyrells are gone and so are the Tarlys save Samwell who’s sworn to the Nights Watch and may not be accepted for the kind of man he is. Storms End has no ruler, you can legitimise Gendry the blacksmith as Robert Baratheon’s heir but be aware that you legitimise a claimant, for Robert won the throne by conquest. The only land you control will be the Westerlands, with Tyrion but he also won’t be accepted by his bannermen, not after fighting against his own kin, having already slain his own father who was rather legendary. The North will close its borders hoping you don’t turn the dragons against them, and if you do, they won’t bend the knee this time, not with Sansa as their Queen.”

“You won’t have allies, you will be alone. I am certain that Quentin Martell will return to Dorne and claim it. I am just as certain that he will offer you a marriage alliance, for himself, for his daughter to Jon. That would make his grandchildren kings of the Seven Kingdoms, and you will be bound by Dorne for you’ll find that you cannot rule without them. It won’t be you ruling, and it won’t be Jon either. You’ll lose more and more men interfering in those infights, trying to support the claimant who promises support to you. You’ll find that their promises are fickle. It won’t be what you intended, I am sure of it.”

“Varys and Tyrion never speak to me of such things,” she said lowly, resentfully. “Tyrion asked me once about who will rule after me, that was all. I refused to discuss it.”

“It isn’t a pretty happy ending, that is for sure,” Reed said, “Perhaps I am wrong, but from our current situation, this is the outcome I see.”

“What will you do?”

“I will do what I have always done, your grace,” Read leaned back in his chair, his hand still holding hers, “I will return to my simple life, and I will pay my taxes to Winterfell, and not bother much with the rest. Whomever comes to claim Greywater Watch will bleed at our hands. We’ve only been defeated once, by a Stark. Not even Aegon conquered the marshes, not that he had need to after Torrhen Stark kneeling.”

“I was hoping you would come to Kings Landing,” she whispered, “Jon would need you. I would need you.”

He smiled a forgiving smile. “If I may speak truly, your grace, I would never. Not while you sit on the Throne and Jon is but a prisoner to the circumstances of his birth there. You would use him.”

“I know what I said, I was angry,” she tried to explain, “I would never force him, you must know that.”

“I know that,” he smiled assuringly, “I didn’t know at first, but I realised that. But Jon would feel obliged, he already does. He gave you his word, and he lives by his word.”

She leaned back in her chair, taking it in. “If Jon ruled, it would be the same though. None of this would be different.”

“No, none of it would be different,” Reed nodded in agreement, “It would be all the same, he would be obliged to take the Martell girl as his wife. He would be stuck in the South with the northern border closed by Sansa, and both would suffer greatly for it, but the North would be independent. I would say that he should honour the Targaryen way and take you, but that is not possible, not if he means to further House Targaryen. It’s quite ironic, really. The blood of your ancestors will have to be diluted to keep your house alive.”

“Aegon married his own sisters,” Dany said firmly, “Two sisters.”

“Aye, and I presume more Targaryens did the same, having multiple wives. Rhaegar had two wives. But Jon grew up in the North, I am not that sure he could adjust his way of thinking that much.”

The door opened, and Ser Davos stepped in. Daenerys had to chuckle at his sight, wearing the same garment as Reed. It seemed that all of them were supposed to discard their dirty clothing and dress crannog style.

“I am sorry if I interrupted,” Davos hesitated, “I can come back later.”

“No, please Ser Davos, stay,” Daenerys said kindly, “I mean it. I feel that for the first time in a long time I am receiving honest advice, although it is rather hard to hear. Your wisdom is needed, if you are willing.”

“What do you need advice about, your grace,” Davos asked, taking the chair opposite Reed. Dany turned, letting go of Reeds hand, noting to herself that she’s been seated at the head of the table.

“Ever since I met you, you never failed to address me properly, Ser Davos,” she said, “Neither of you ever failed at that.”

“You are a Queen,” Reed explained, “You are Queen of Meereen. It is quite likely that you’ll be Queen of the southern kingdoms, so it seems proper. And it is a matter of courtesy. And respect.”

Daenerys smiled thankfully, her eyes sad. She felt determined. She hoped she’ll be able to handle whatever she’ll hear, what all she’s heard so far, but she was determined. It felt like her eyes were being opened, by the most unexpected of people. She felt betrayed, and yet she felt the need to hear it all now. There was no going back. She didn’t think any of this could change her mind, but information is power. It is better to know it, she resolved in herself.

“Ser Davos answer me truly, in your opinion”, she began, “Who would make a better ruler, Jon Snow or me?”

_[to be continued…]_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter were unplanned. I can't recall anything of the marshes and GW and it was so much fun to describe a more "magical" world - if I got it wrong, please be kind, it's imagination :)
> 
> I had a talk with Reed and Dany in mind for long and it also wasn't planned - just like froggy dinner was a mere idea that grew into a must, because I want them to have a stark contrast to war and a pleasant evening but first some harsh truths are coming out. It may seem very "in your face" and don't take Reed please as a political expert. But he's trying to give honest advice where he sees it's needed. He doesn't dislike Dany at all else he wouldn't bother. This is Reed (and me) seeing that Dany deserves consideration for all her efforts.
> 
> To be continued but girl needs to sleep so I could only get this far... I'll finish tomorrow. Oh and I'll add a Jon & Dany scene, too. It may end up a "3 chapter insert" (as these GW chapters weren't part of the story) but I also have plans for the return of a character after watching an old scene on youtube. Hint: it was a scene with Jon in it.
> 
> PS - all the good wishes to Sophie Turner, now twice married so to say. Gosh I can't wait to see THE dress! I saw one picture and it had a huge skirt, that made me happy and way too curious. Google here I come :D


	39. Greywater Watch II.

Davos looked stunned, at the Dragon Queen, at Howland Reed, holding the queen’s hand in his one hand, back at the queen.

“Your grace asked a question you know the answer to,” he said lowly. “I rather not wake the wrath of the dragons.”

Daenerys chuckled at that. “My brother used to call himself a dragon,” she said, “Every time something was not to his liking, he said the dragon has been awoken. Not many things were to his liking.”

“I would say that your grace differs from your brother in that many things are to your liking,” Davos smiled, “But truly, your grace is a dragon, too. Easy to awake as well, if I may add.”

“I have a quick temper,” she admitted. “I am not a patient person.”

“But a ruler needs patience,” Davos said, “I served Stannis Baratheon. I’ve not seen a man more frustrated or impatient. He marched to his death impatiently.”

“Now you serve Jon,” Dany added, “Though, you lost your pin.”

“Aye, I gave it to the Queen, it is not mine to wear anymore,” Davos said as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “It was a rather nice pin, as far as I can tell, it was not the usual style.”

“No, it had a wolf, in the palm of the hand,” Dany said, “I wondered at that.”

“Which is why it is not mine anymore.”

“You’ve not answered my question, Ser Davos,” she smiled, “and fear not, you will not awaken the dragon. Not tonight, not in a place as magical as this.”

“The answer is in the question itself, your grace,” Davos said, “You ask who would make a better ruler. In other words, who would I choose. I made my choice already. I MADE a choice, to be exact. People like me have no say in who becomes their king or queen, no one does really. I had the fortune to choose a king. I cannot say whether I chose wisely for it is not my wisdom that made him the king he was, it was his doing. I am proud of the choice I made.”

“Jon often reminds me of a song. I know not who wrote it, in truth I know not all the verses, but that is why I would choose Jon, your grace. For how he ruled, for the man he is, what he represents.”

“Which song is that?” Reed was intrigued truly.

“It is called The Revolt of the Sea.”, Davos said, and with a deep breath he began,

 

_“The revolt of the sea has come, the sea of nations in full spate._

_Earth and Heavens assaulted and over sea-walls vaulted with terror in his wake._

_Watch him tread his measure, do you hear him as he peals?_

_You now have the pleasure to watch him at your leisure kicking up his heels._

_At nineteen to the dozen the great vessels roll about_

_They fall for he has risen, to hells with mainmast, mizzen, sails turned inside out._

_Pounding on, exhausting passion, batter at battle’s drum,_

_Expose his depths the riven furies and fling to heavens the filthy tidal scum._

_Seventh heaven bear witness before all fancy fools,_

_Though proud ships on the surface yet vast the sea beneath, and he the water rules.”_

 

“I must admit I didn’t really understand much,” Dany whispered.

“It is old, very old,” Davos began to explain. “As I see it, power is an abstract concept. Few hold power, and we the masses of common people serve them. We are countless, like drops of water in the sea. They look strong and mighty like the ships, seemingly ruling the waves. But what happens in a storm? The ships sink. What happens without water? Those ships on land would rule nothing, they depend on the waves like the lords depend on their servants for everything, they order them about and if they are good to their people, the people obey, like the sea on a summer day with favourable winds.”

“I always thought of Jon like the sea. I’ve seen him in command of the Nights Watch, I’ve seen him rule. He doesn’t care about the Whinging Cerwyns and Grumbling Glovers, he cares about what is good for his people. He isn’t afraid to act and do what is necessary for his people.”

“But that does not make him a better ruler than me,” Dany pointed out, “So it does not answer my question.”

“The question in itself is a conundrum, your grace,” Reed said then, “For Ser Davos cannot see the future, no one can. I advised Jon once to look at the circumstances, look from the perspective of others. Think of the decisions others would make, and if you know these, you can choose wisely. The answer does not depend on your character, or Jon’s, and we could draw many similarities between you. The answer lies in your circumstances, for his opportunities and yours are different. Make wise decisions based on your circumstances to establish your rule, only then can we consider whether you or he would be better suited to rule in the resulting situation.”

The door creaked open and they all looked up.

“Now this is a sight I have not expected,” Jon said smiling, somewhat confused.

“You arrived at the right time,” Reed returned the smile.

“I am not sure we should…” Dany whispered.

“Remember what you told me your grace,” Reed said softly, “that you would never, I must know. If you heed my advice, then my first advice to you is to trust Jon, for he is your greatest ally and asset.”

“I am not sure I follow,” Jon said, taking a cup for himself that he filled with vine.

“We are discussing ruling,” Davos remarked.

“No,” Reed said, “We are advising the Queen.”

Dany smiled at that, thankfully. “And I am grateful for your advice. I am grateful for your honesty, Lord Reed.”

Jon leaned against the wooden windowsill, and Reed turned his chair sideways toward him.

“I just advised the Queen to look at her circumstances in order to see how to rule.” He said.

“And what are her circumstances like?” Jon asked suspiciously.

“Dire,” Dany chuckled, “and grim.”

“I would rather not have you two trying to mould Daenerys to your will,” Jon said firmly.

“They have not,” Dany smiled, “Truly, Jon, they have not asked of me anything. Lord Reed has given me knowledge I lacked. Though I have one more question, and you may not like it.”

They all looked at Dany as she took a deep breath and began, “I ask you to advise me, truly and honestly. Tell me how I can rule.”

“It is not our position to tell,” Davos said lowly, “Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys should tell.”

“In truth, I’ve given much thought to this in the past days,” Reed said. “You seek honest advice. My honest advice is that you cannot do it alone. You need Jon.”

“She has me,” Jon declared, “I gave my word.”

“Which will only sow animosity,” Reed countered. “Before I left for Winterfell, and years before that, I wondered how Jon could establish his rule. I am not well suited to advise kings and queens, Crannogmen have little interest in politics and I am no different – I merely learned because of Jon. And I thought about how your grace could do this, and I do not see it. Lord Tyrion may see otherwise, but I do not see how you could succeed without torching half of Westeros, and if you do that, you will never establish a lasting rule either. If you hear me out, I can try to explain, in my limited knowledge why I see it this way.”

Jon wanted to speak but decided against it as he tried to control his fury. Daenerys merely sank in her chair, but after a moment, she nodded.

“Let’s consider that your grace names Jon’s children your heir as planned. Jon will become your greatest asset and your greatest curse. Your hand in marriage won’t mean much, your grace, you may even remain unwed should you wish to, it makes little difference. Quentin Martell will demand a marriage with his daughter Arianne. Kevan has a daughter, Lelia – he will demand the same marriage. You can hardly avoid a war in the Reach, for Samwell is not your ally, and forgive me, but sidestepping Jon will not bring anyone to your cause who are his supporters. You would have to choose a claimant and wed Sam’s sister to your choice, then fight for him against Tarly supporters. Except, you have a candidate in Jon whose heirs will follow you on the throne, which would appease the Reach and avoid bloodshed. You know where I am going with this, you turned Jon into prized meat, because the southern houses’ lust for power is your best tool to bind them with.”

“Howland,” Jon began, albeit he didn’t have any words to express himself. He was angry at what he’s heard, yet his mind couldn’t help racing. Sam didn’t forgive Daenerys, Jon knew it.

“I am to give honest advice, Jon,” Reed said softly. “I will only do that.”

“This is only Dorne, the Westerlands and the Reach,” Daenerys said.

“The Crownlands is easier, legitimise Gendry, name him Lord of Storms End. Whomever rules, your grace or Jon, it would always be the same. Gendry will be loyal to the king or queen who gives him the name and title, and frankly, his support or current respect of both of you means nothing until then.”

“And the rest?” Daenerys looked at Reed with what could be perceived as desperation in her eyes.

“You cannot do anything about the rest,” Reed said lowly, “You’ve set Jon aside, you’ve disinherited him, regardless of whether he offered his claim or not and what he got for it. You will enter a stalemate situation with the Vale without any further ado, and with Riverrun and the North itself. The North will not be content with your handling of Jon, your grace, don’t expect amicable relations, only an uneasy peace that will last depending on your resolution to the marriage problem. Wed him to a Lannister and there’ll be war, for example.”

“But the Vale and the Riverlands do not owe fealty to the North,” she pointed out.

“No, they don’t, but do you know what ties them together? Blood, and blood is stronger than any oath a man can take, your grace. Edmure Tully, the rightful lord of Riverrun, is my Queen’s uncle. Robyn Arryn is her cousin and is already supplying the North with his forces.”

“They owe fealty to the Iron Throne,” she stated.

“So did Robert Baratheon when he rose against the Mad King, so did Jon Arryn, so did Eddard Stark. My Queen’s mother was Catelyn Tully, whose sister Lysa wed the same Jon Arryn and their son Robyn is the heir, regardless of his half-mad cowardly state. Edmure is their brother, and he wronged House Stark gravely before, he will not wrong the North again, your grace. His own men would slit his throat in memory of Hoster Tully if he did. Let me give you an alternative to this mess instead of trying to convince you, because this way is not possible.”

She nodded straight away.

“Name Jon your heir,” Reed said with a sigh. “That is the single best thing you can do to establish your rule. You won’t disinherit him, you merely claim the Iron Throne by conquest for House Targaryen and named your heir to further the same house. My Queen, myself and many in the North will grumble about it of course, but we couldn’t say you wronged him, now could we?”

“That will lose me Dorne,” Dany said sternly, “There is no point in a marriage to the Martell for me if I already have an heir.”

“Does Quentin Martell know of your … limitation in that regard? No, he does not,” Reed smiled, “This is politics your grace. Information is power. You named Jon your heir, you wed Quentin and there’ll be no issue from the marriage. If he learns of it, you can claim it was a rouse to keep the alliance with the North. You can even blame Quentin for the lack of issue, he’s not a young man after all and it’s the Queen’s word against his. But, by the time he grew frustrated, you have a relationship with the Northern kingdom because you’ll work on it, you have the Vale content, the Riverlands where you place Edmure securely in position, the Crownlands where you legitimised Gendry. You named Kevan Lannister into your small council and named him Lord Paramount, he brings the Westerlands to the fold. You affirmed Samwell Tarly as Lord of Horn Hill and Lord Paramount, and he sits on your council, naturally with Jon so he’ll be content, those who wouldn’t approve him will accept because he will be protected by a strong Crown behind him. Keep your fickle Lords close and keep your council diverse. You have Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys, they can guide you wisely and cunning, but they will be challenged by Kevan and Quentin, separately or together, for power over you. However, you also have Samwell, Jon, and perhaps even Ser Davos who serves Jon still, they can balance the strife, if by nothing else than Jon’s presence. If you trust Jon, name him your heir, keep him unwed, and you never gave too much power to any of those southern scum while the opportunity will always linger, like a slice of meat in front of the dog who obeys your commands, they will continue to hope and plan for a marriage with Jon.”

“And what will Quentin Martell do when he realises that he cannot be favoured for that marriage and he cannot have an heir through me?” Daenerys said frustrated, “He will revolt, Lord Reed.”

“Yes, he will,” Reed said, “in which case either Jon marries the Martell girl, or you simply wed her to a Celtigar and march on Dorne to place Celtigar into a position of power.”

She stood, her face betraying her mind deep in thought. “I thank you for your advice, Lord Reed,” she said, her voice kind but distant. “I know you gave me honest advice, and I am grateful. But now I find I need to think on it alone for it is not to my liking.”

“You don’t trust Jon?” Davos asked surprised.

“I do,” Daenerys said, looking straight into Jon’s sad eyes, “I truly do, that is not the problem. I shall return for supper.” She turned and rushed out of the room.

“Was it truly honest advice, or was it wishful thinking, Howland?” Jon hissed as soon as the door closed behind the queen, “Was this necessary?”

“It was necessary,” Reed affirmed, “You know it was. And it was honest, because someone had to speak truth to her, she deserves that much. I promised I won’t ask her to step aside, but it is true, what I said. I am sorry Jon, I truly am, but it is all true to my best knowledge. I am not a politician, but she asked for advice and I gave it to my best abilities, not because I want her to succeed in your place, but out of my love for you. She is your choice, and I told you I will accept it.”

Jon merely nodded, before he also rushed out of the room. He found he needed fresh air. He needed to be alone, away from Reed and Davos or anyone else who would scheme and make politics about him.

“That went exceptionally well,” Davos said with a forgiving smile. “Perhaps we will end up as dragon meat.”

“I doubt it, my friend,” Reed smiled, “Perhaps once we would’ve but not anymore. She is not the same person she was when she arrived in Westeros. She also can learn. And…” Reed leaned back in his chair, “She loves Jon. She may not know it yet but now I am certain, she loves him. That is her problem, not trusting him.”

***

Dinner was an interesting affair, to say the least. At least for Jaime Lannister, it was, and not because he learned that frogs actually taste delicious. The frog legs were roasted, marinated in some green spices and he found he liked them better than chicken, albeit one had to eat a dozen before feeling full.

He couldn’t say the same about squirrel stew. It seemed that the crannogmen cooked all kinds of leaves into their dishes, for the stew had a slightly greenish colour with leaves in it. It had parsnips, meat that tasted somewhat sweet, but Jaime couldn’t figure whether it was the actual taste of the meat, the whole stew tasted sweet and sour and spicy. They made it with soured goat’s milk and that gave it a thick texture, as well. The queen – both queens in fact – seemed to like it very much. Jaime settled with the frog legs, and there was a tray full of them, thankfully for it seemed that one had to eat at least a dozen to feel like he’s eaten, and most men preferred them, with parsnips roasted in honey and sweet potatoes, a sauce made of quail’s eggs and more soured milk and green spices.

Adding to it were fishpies, small pies cooked with fish and berries in them, served after the main dish by which time all of them settled with the thought that the crannogmen knew a thing or two about making the most of what they’ve got, even without their cooks present. They learned that the leaves were seaweeds, even bamboo, alongside the usual kitchen greens. Lord Reed explained lengthily the good in eating them, how healthy they were, making Sandor Clegane smirking even more at them. But Clegane smirked at everything anyways, his entry line of “Fuck me, are we fucking monks now” made them laugh so hard that Jaime almost choked on his wine. They also learned that the leaves in their bath were in fact the same as in the stew, which to Jaime explained why it seemed that all of them got more and more content with themselves as the evening progressed.

Just like the rest of them, he was amused at the clothing they were given. Comfort it seemed was valued high at Greywater Watch, and Jaime made a mental note to have something similar made for himself once the wars were won. Or lost, if he will still require clothing and, if he will still be able to afford any clothing. Or perhaps all he will have need for is a ‘monk’s clothing’, whatever a monk was. Clegane’s vocabulary began to impress him.

The only thing that didn’t make sense in all this carefree feasting was Jon Snow, and the Queen. They often exchanged looks and looked away when they were caught by the other. Jaime wondered if something was amiss, until he realised perhaps it was the opposite – something was brewing. Two Targaryens, perhaps their blood began to draw them to each other. Targaryens married brothers and sisters, which Jaime could just as well understand. It seemed so obvious once he decided it must be what he was recognising now. He hoped he and Cersei never were so obvious about it.

After the table had been cleared, the old man – named Quagg as Jaime learned – came into the room, in his hand a checkered wooden box.

“Here is the man of the day,” Edric Snow announced, rising from his chair, “Quagg, is that right? We’ve been told you are responsible for our fine culinary experience tonight. Someone give the man a cup!”

Edd Tollett obeyed, pouring wine into a cup and sticking it into the stunned old man’s hand.

“I say, raise your cups to Quagg,” Edric declared and they all gladly obeyed amidst loud shouts of cheer, not the least because half of them were already feeling the effects of the wine.

Quagg raised the box in his hand, but Reed stood, “Not yet, my friend. I have a game in mind.”

“A game?” Jaime asked.

“Aye, a game,” Reed grinned, “One I used to play with the children whenever they were quarrelling about something – which is about every second day.”

“We’ve not quarrelled all day,” Arya remarked, and some laughed, including Reed.

“And you are not children either,” Reed countered, “which I am surprised none protested to declare.”

“I would like you all to think and choose who you are. Do not share it, just choose. A dove is peaceful and friendly. An owl is wise, and logical. A peacock is showy, and optimistic and an eagle is bold and decisive. Chose which one are you, and keep it to yourselves. Quagg, you too, take a seat and play with us.”

They raised their eyebrows, partially about Reed in effect calling them quarrelling children, but as the room silenced they all pondered on which animal they would chose. Then Reed stood.

“Alright, I start. Guess which one I chose.”

“This is easy,” Clegane remarked, “The lord of this keep is an owl!” They all laughed, and Reed nodded, ushering Quagg to stand.

“We do not know him,” Arya remarked.

“That is true to almost everyone in the room,” Sam added, “We do not know one another that well. Perhaps that is the point of the game?”

“I would say he is an owl, too,” Jaime said.

“I think he’s a dove,” Missandei argued, and some joined both camps.

“I say he’s an eagle,” Jon declared, and they turned toward him surprised.

“How did you know, Jon?” Reed asked.

“He defied my orders and yours and stayed behind with some of the men,” Jon said, “I guessed it, based on what else he’s told us. He’s eager to fight.”

Quagg grinned, “Jon Targaryen is good at seeing people’s colours from very little, then,” he said, “for I am an eagle.”

Missandei who sat next to him stood, and they all shouted ‘Dove!”, same when Davos stood, he was swiftly proclaimed an Owl. Arya was easily found to be an eagle, same for Sansa being a dove, just like Sam. Most of these were easy, Clegane began to grumble how they know each other well enough not to play such games after all, right until his turn, and his being overwritten by Reed and called an owl – no one really believed it, but Reed reasoned that he’s not a decisive person, with examples enough to convince at least Sandor Clegane himself. Edd Tollett being a dove was harder to define and required Reed’s judgement, with none agreeing with him but Edd himself once he proclaimed it. And as it turned out, Jaime Lannister was indeed a peacock despite how some of them thought him an eagle too. Daenerys caused a major problem, too – they found her all four of the categories. Finally, she declared herself an eagle ending the stalemate and Reed agreed with her judgement of herself. Jon was found to be an owl despite thinking himself an eagle, Reed arguing that Jon may be bold, but he is certainly not decisive enough to be an eagle. By the time they reached full circle, they all realised that they didn’t know each other as much as they perhaps thought. It made Jon think, and as he looked around he could see that he wasn’t alone.

“This wasn’t the game itself,” Reed said then, “But if it made you think of how much you got right, then it was a good exercise. Knowing someone from very little is important, to be able to work with them. Now, let’s take the four sides of the table, the four animal groups, Quagg and I will remain neutral for I need his help.” They moved slowly to their respective sides, looking around the other groups.

The game was the following. Quagg held two sticks in his hand, and the leader of the group – Dany, Jaime, Sansa or Jon – had to pick one. The short stick meant the group was not allowed to speak. Then Reed would open a children’s book, and the first word on the page had to be explained, either by showing, or by describing without telling. The group that had the answer first, received a figurine from the checkered box as counting measure.

It soon became obvious how differently they approached the task. Sansa’s group was quiet and managed to not collect any figurines. Jon’s quiet group however managed to collect the most, ten out of sixteen. Ser Jaime’s group was loud, shouting in their guesses, too often wrong, and ended with a single figurine. Dany’s group, even louder, collected the second most figurines, still half of what Jon’s group had. But most of all, they laughed, all of them, heartily and often. The game went until all the bright figurines were gone from the box.

“Now, do you see the problem?” Reed asked, “Your characters, if having to work with only similar characters, don’t really make good teams. Except the owls, but that is because of the nature of the game. What you see in your own teams would happen to them were we playing a different game.”

Then Reed had Sansa, Dany and Jon pick their teams, one of each animals, preferably unknown to them. They repeated a few rounds of the same game, Sansa’s team comprising of Edric, Theon and Sam, Dany’s including Ser Davos, Edd Tollett and an extremely useless Cerwyn, while Jon had an equally useless but loud Glover, balanced by great team work from Jaime and Missandei. The game lasted until all the dark figurines were gone from the box, and the results were astounding. Jon had five figurines, same as Dany. Sansa had six and was declared a winner.

“This is the lesson for all three of you,” Reed said, “Knowing the people around you and choosing wisely whom you work with, based on their qualities will make you stronger. Now, Quagg here is a champion of chess. He’s eager to beat your high-born backsides. Anyone up to the challenge?” Quagg unfolded the wooden box and a chess board emerged. He swiftly moved to place the figurines.

“Does he beat you?” Jaime asked Reed.

“Truthfully, more times than I would like to admit,” Reed grinned.

Edric was the first to challenge Quagg and lost in what seemed to Jon the new record of swift losing. Reed began explaining the game to Edd, Dany and Missandei, while Jon convinced Davos to try after Jaime who lost as well, just as the same as Edric. Davos lasted considerably longer but lost all the same. Sam lost as well, though it seemed to Jon that Quagg actually had to think this time, unlike when Jon himself played the man and truly, didn’t last longer than Edric and Jaime. Theon set a new record of shortest time to lose, before Sansa ventured to try. And lost. It was true, no one could beat Quagg at chess. They began to yawn, and slowly, said their goodnight to retire. By the time Sansa played, there was only Reed, Quagg, Edric and Ser Jaime, and Jon.

“It was a rather interesting evening,” Jon told Reed as he stood to leave.

“A little different than those great hall feasts, I admit,” Reed smiled, “but it was good this way. You all needed to step out of your roles and just be like children and learn.”

“And get drunk,” Jon grinned.

“Aye, you did that too, so did those two,” Reed nodded toward Edric and Jaime discussing something quite funny for they were laughing constantly.

“Thank you, Howland,” Jon said softly, before he turned to leave, Reed watching him stumble with a wide smile on his face.

***

He sat on his bed wondering about the headache that was surely to come tomorrow, when he heard the knock on the door.

“Are you drunk?” Daenerys asked.

“Aye, a little,” Jon said as he stood, stumbling.

“I came to tell you something,” Dany closed the door behind herself. “And I needed company.”

“Isn’t Missandei good company?” Jon asked smiling, “Actually, she surprised me in my team, that girl is smart.”

“Yes, many underestimate her I suppose,” Dany said, looking around the room before her eyes settled on the tapestry depicting the two dragons. “I needed your company.”

Jon wondered why. She stood in front of his bed, studying the tapestry lengthily, before she turned toward him. “I came to tell you that I do trust you.”

“You told me that before,” he said softly, “And I am sorry. I am sorry for what they told you.”

“I am not,” she smiled, “I am glad that they told me. My own advisors should’ve told me a long time ago, I shouldn’t have need for your advisors to tell me the truth, and if I do what need do I have of my own advisors then?”

“Neither Howland nor Davos are actually my advisors,” Jon pointed out.

“No but I asked them, and they both chose you as their preference,” she explained.

“They both know me better for longer, that is why,” Jon tried to reason, “Their choice is not because I would make a good ruler. I never wanted to be a king.”

“Ser Davos sang a song,” Dany said, “one that explained why people chose you, I suppose.”

“Ser Davos is a terrible singer,” Jon chuckled.

“Yes, he is,” she said, as she stepped in front of him. “I cannot name you my heir, Jon.”

“I’ve not asked you to,” he whispered.

“But I am telling you, I cannot,” she repeated, “I understand the point Lord Reed tried to make, but I have a better plan.”

“A better plan?”

“Yes, a better plan,” she smiled, “and Lord Reed gave me insight that I lacked, to consider it, but my plan I think is still a good plan. I hope you trust me, Jon.”

“I gave you my word,” Jon said instead.

“Yes, and I know you are a man of your word,” she said, “But I ask you, trust me. I can make this work.”

Jon smiled reassuringly. She leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek, before she turned and left the room. He stood there for a long while wondering about their brief conversation, what her plan could be. Finally, he gave up, his eyes not willing to stay open for much longer. He discarded the fur west and boots and climbed into the bed, soft, warm and inviting. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to @Chibu_Chibu for the idea that this chapter incorporates :) It helped to add a lighter second half to a quite dark first half.  
> This is the new "hardest chapter to write" - it has 5 (!) versions before I ended up with one I was happy with for the first scene, giving enough info to Dany, but not too much to "kill" the plot ;P  
> I can't say I like this chapter much but it was fun, take these characters who are at war and frankly, each hate half of the group, and have them form teams like on a company team building event :D
> 
> On a sidenote, the chapter was to be a Jonerys one. Yup they were to "do the deed" at the end. I just wrote that part now and it didn't feel right anymore, she wouldn't just go to him and do it after all she's learned today. Yes he's drunk so he probably would but it'd just generate problems the next day for him as well as her. So I decided they won't. Sorry!
> 
> Ps - the poem is also inspired by the notes - so much talk of where we are from, it was written about a revolution in my homeland in the 19th century and translated to English by a poet but I had to make some slight changes to make it fit. It does feel a bit like sacrilege but also, it’s a lovely poem.


	40. Greywater Watch III.

‘We are at war.’

Jon kept repeating to himself the same sentence, whenever his mind wandered off as he sat on the riverbank, watching the scenery, watching the beavers hard at work. The cold breeze that came time and again startled them, they looked up, although as time passed they stared less and less at Jon himself. After a few moments the returned to their task with renewed determination, knowing well what the cold winds would bring. Jon knew now too, for it was a long journey here, and he queried Reed in depth about the magic he sensed in the marshes.

That is why he now knew that in the ages of old, the Children of the Forest attempted to separate North and South at the marshes, hoping that if the sea came between them and the First Men, they could retain some of their lands to themselves. They failed at that, but as far as Reed, and all his ancestors could tell, their magic still held – winter had far less power here. At least this was the ancient story told generation by generation at Greywater Watch. As if the earth itself was infused by the power of their magic, sustaining life even when all around them froze. Nothing could be seen from the outside, Jon recalled how the land changed as they entered the deep marshes two days ago, trees became greener and greener, the vegetation denser, until they reached the river. This is why Greywater Watch was always so hard to find, and even harder to penetrate – not only did it float on the water, able to be moved out of danger – albeit slowly, Jon learned – but it was surrounded by in effect a jungle of vegetation providing the best natural barrier and challenge, for it hid the ground, and unless one spent all their life living in the marshes, there was very little chance to always take the right step. Reed was right, a foreigner should not venture out by themselves for certainly, they will be lost and consumed by the marshes.

Which is exactly why now Jon was sitting by the riverbank just on the edge, admiring the other side where – apart from random piles of freshly disturbed earth where once ancient pine trees stood, a forest took over on dry land. He was waiting, and so was Reed, Quagg and two more crannogmen nearby.

The day could not be much weirder, he was woken by a grinning Quagg who at first knocked for so long that Jon had to shout to stop, then refused to enter the room, merely telling him to get ready to leave. He found out later – not from a constantly grinning Quagg but Reed himself – that Quagg has seen the Dragon Queen enter his room. He made some assumptions, obviously incorrect, and way too insulting to Jon for it to feel normal. He couldn’t reason why he felt so sensitive about it, why he felt offended that he was assumed to be “that kind of man”. He was not that kind of man, but normally such things never bothered him one bit.

The Watch was already beyond sight when he learned the reason of his unplanned sunrise-time departure. Until then, throughout the hasty grab of his freshly laundered clothing through their equally hastened departure, right to the moment when Reed broke the uneasy silence, Jon was under the firm belief that the dead have reached them, that they somehow got clever enough to foil their plans. He even wondered if Reed was smuggling him out of Greywater Watch – his mind toying with the thought that Reed and Quagg perhaps decided it was the easiest way to “get rid of the competition”. Naturally he scolded himself at such suspicions, but they didn’t leave him be easily.

“There is a visitor we are to meet,” Reed told him then, with a raised eyebrow awaiting Jon’s reaction. “One I am sure you will be eager to see again.”

“Who is it then,” Jon asked, attempting faintly to hide his rising temper and annoyance at being kept in the dark for so long. His temper rose so quickly and easily these days, it took conscious effort to remain calm, in what seemed to him all his waking time.

“Benjen Stark,” Quagg declared.

“The half-wight that was once Benjen Stark,” Reed added.

“So it is true,” Jon noted looking into the distance ahead. “Bran told me he met Uncle Benjen, that the dead got to him, and the Children saved him. I didn’t want to believe it, even when I saw him and his skin… I didn’t want to believe it.”

“It is true,” Reed said softly, his one hand on Jon’s shoulder for a moment. “Even if I had not seen this morning, he told me as much.”

“You converse with my uncle,” Jon looked at Reed, not as surprised as his words indicated, “I didn’t take Benjen for a warg.”

“Benjen Stark was no warg.” Reed smiled, “Benjen the Coldhands is a warg, and much more besides.”

“Why are we leaving the marshes to meet him though,” Jon wondered, “it is my uncle, he’s known to the men, any of yours could lead him to Greywater Watch.”

“And how many dead men did your men see whom they knew before?” Reed’s words were harsh and to the point. “They knew Benjen. They don’t know Coldhands.”

“Coldhands…” Jon repeated. “You must have conversed a lot.”

“Aye, for he is a great source of information I find,” Reed grinned.

“And you failed to tell me,” Jon said coldly.

“Forgive me Jon,” Reed began, “but do I serve you? No, I merely aid you. You’re not my liege, you’re not even my king, you made sure of that. I tell you things when I see them fit to tell you. Just as I told the Dragon Queen what I thought when I saw it fit to tell her. I have your interest in mind, but I do not serve you. The conversation with the Dragon Queen opened my eyes to that.”

“So you will go and serve her now?” Jon was surprised at the sudden change in Reed, the decisiveness in his voice.

“Of course not,” Reed stated without a hint in his voice of taking the question as an insult, yet it was this exactly that made Jon realise he meant it that way. His mind once more wondered for a moment away from the present to look at the man he was swiftly becoming, how he didn’t like this new him.

“I serve Greywater Watch, Jon,” Reed said, “I am responsible for every crannog soul, first of all. I owe fealty to Winterfell, and thus Sansa is my Queen. There is no room for the Dragon Queen in this chain of command.”

“Where am I in your chain of command?” Jon asked with genuine interest.

“In truth, nowhere,” Reed’s smile was just as genuine, but his tone spoke of clarity more than kindness. “You forfeited your birthright. Unless you claim it back, you have no place in my chain of command. You have a place in my home though, in my family.”

“I am not your blood, Howland,” Jon said lowly, “I am nobody’s family. My kin are dead, those alive can’t wait to slice each other’s throat.”

“Aye, women,” Quagg interrupted, grinning once more. “If they won’t quarrel for a crown they will quarrel for Jon Targaryen.”

Jon shot an angry look at Quagg, but bit back the words that came with it. Self-control, he told himself. He wouldn’t want to be left out in the marshes alone, not that he thought any of them would allow such a thing to be done.

“You don’t have my blood, Jon,” Reed said, “But I grew to know you and to love you, and to accept whatever you do. You cannot command me or my men, that much is true, but we are by your side. You don’t need a place in my chain of command.”

“You’d still want me to be king, though,” Jon noted.

“Aye, that is a rather desirable outcome,” Reed said with a sigh, “compared to what we are all heading into.”

“Have you given any thought to it, Jon?” Howland Reed was on a roll once more, Jon thought, another lecture was forthcoming. His intuition didn’t disappoint him he realised, as Reed continued. “We will win this war, Jon. We will defeat the Night King, you will defeat him. With the forces you command, with the help you can get from the likes of Coldhands, myself, the Red Priestess… And what comes after? Daenerys will claim the Iron Throne, Sansa will wall off the North and strengthen Moat Cailyn, The Neck in between them exposed. I hold no illusions that there’ll be no war. We’ll do what we’ve always done, we’ll pick them out whomever comes to cross our lands and leave the rest to Moat Cailyn. Then the dragons will come, or perhaps only the black one, and burn the marshes, burn my woods, and burn half the North. Sansa will be defeated.”

“Not if I am with Daenerys,” Jon said firmly, “You forgot about me.”

“I have not, Jon,” Reed said kindly, “But you can’t control your aunt, no one can. Tyrion Lannister failed to control her at Blackwater Rush. All her advisors failed at one time or another in controlling her. She’s a conqueror, and conquerors don’t bode well with settling down to rule. You’re a ruler, that is true, but you would not rule. She has a kind heart, but she can’t take my advice, I know that, and because of her reason why, sooner or later she will come for the North.”

“Why are you so certain?”

“I had a long time to think last night,” Reed said, “About my words to Davos that she won’t have her dragons burn us alive for our words to her. About her reason why. Love is the end of reason, the end of duty, and love is a two-edged sword. The opposite of love is indifference, yet we are emotional creatures – when love ends it is never indifference that it turns into, it is hate. When love ends in disappointment, the hate burns all the stronger for it. Quagg is right, he has keen eyes to see that you are between two queens now. Both want you by their side, it is a matter of time until they turn against each other for you. I do ask myself what the point is then, all this fighting”

“I don’t believe it,” Jon said, turning forward to watch the man of Reed’s tying the boat to a pike. They arrived, Jon stood to leave the boat as he turned back to Reed. “I don’t believe Sansa would risk that, not after all that has happened, and I don’t believe either of them would do so for me. You are wrong, Howland, this time you are wrong. You like this drama so much, I find, that you see it even when it already ceased.”

With that, he stepped out of the boat and went straight to sit by the riverbank, the others giving him safe distance as if they knew he needed the time alone. Jon wondered if he had reason to sit here alone. Even more so, if it was he who was blinded, and Reed whose eyes were wide open to the truth. Daenerys came to him last night, said she wanted his company, then left and Jon knew he was cold, colder than he should’ve been if he listened to that little grumble inside him that wanted her near. Sansa didn’t speak to him in what seemed a lifetime, and whenever they spoke, their words were harsh, always arguing about something or another. He could not tell Sansa’s feelings anymore, he could only tell how the memories of having her close, feeling like he was ‘home’ were aching whenever he recalled them, he longed to feel that way. It was another matter to add to his growing identity crisis. Being a Targaryen wasn’t an easy ride at all, he chuckled to himself in his self-pity.

*****

Tyrion watched as the Dothraki boarded their ships, turned to see and other ships took their place in the small pier only for the same ritual to be repeated – horses led aboard, sacks and more sacks of carried abroad after them, then men rushing on, dread on their faces, and the ships depart for yet more ships to take their place. The Dothraki were leaving the island, and Tyrion knew, he wasn’t alone watching. By now most of the northmen turned back to whatever they were doing, mainly standing in line for ratios of thin stew and the like. But not those who knew what this meant.

Daenerys left the island almost defenceless. She called on the Dothraki reserve to sail to Westeros, to The Neck, and left only 500 to defend a good 300 thousand souls crammed onto the island, in addition to the few hundred villagers. It left a bitter taste in Tyrion’s mouth, but he kept that to himself. Varys was vocal enough for both of them, going on for the best of the last two days, ever since the raven arrived really, loudly and often about how Jon Snow will be the end of them all, that Jon Snow got a grip on Daenerys.

They were at war, they were fighting dead men. Varys was no military commander. Daenerys was neither, but she was there in the midst of it, she fought them. All Varys – and Tyrion for that matter – experienced of this war was the sight of one wight of a boy and being crammed on this island. But Tyrion saw beyond the obvious. He felt the dread, because unlike Varys, he took the time to speak to some of the northerners who arrived. They told him of White Harbor, that they could hear the shrieks of the dead as they embarked, that they saw the dragons fighting them back, so the people could escape. Except not all the dragons were fighting them back. They saw a dead dragon, spitting blue fire, a grim white creature riding it. So, the dead got a dragon. They saw the black one and the green, so Tyrion knew it was Viserion. And they also told him that they saw who rode those dragons. The Dragon Queen, they called her, and the King in the North – for most of them Jon Snow was their king and Tyrion felt it inappropriate to educate refugees driven from their home of the harsh developments in that field, after hearing the awe in their voice. Their king rode a mighty dragon against armies of dead men, so they could escape, the Dragon Queen’s black dragon spit a wall of fire between the city and the harbour, so they could escape. He was so valiant, and she was so fierce and beautiful… this is where the tales trailed off to such admirative monologues.

Tyrion was yet to tell Varys any of this. He had a growing unease about Varys, although he didn’t go beyond the claim that Varys would rain on his parade – his also rapidly growing gladness at the admiration Daenerys seemed to command from the commoners of the North. When she was by Jon Snow’s side, doing all the deeds they did together, it seemed to Tyrion that they more and more embodied his idea of the perfect solution to many problems. One being, how will Daenerys remain peaceful with the North now that Sansa was queen. Another being, how will she settle to rule and stop conquering. The matter that Tyrion was certain Jon Snow would not be accepted as king by the southern kingdoms could wait, same for the matter that Daenerys needed an heir and only Jon Snow could provide a Targaryen heir at which point – if the queen’s claims were true – such a union was out of the question. Such concerns could wait, for now Tyrion was content that she was loved. Somewhat loved. It all depended on Jon Snow being Jon Snow and the man was almost hailed as a god, but by his side, Daenerys was accepted. He could work with that, Tyrion thought, he doesn’t need Varys to spill this cup. Daenerys and Jon Snow, how about that for the next king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms. One could dream still, and Tyrion was convinced it would be the best outcome.

His more immediate concern was also not at all the possibility of a love match though. Daenerys first allowed hundreds of thousands of refugees to Dragonstone, and now commanded away all their protection. Tyrion chuckled, as a Dothraki retched aboard a leaving ship, just within his sight still. Their Khaleesi called them, so they were leaving, and if Tyrion was right, he was not to see whether Jon Snow and Daenerys will find a way to reconcile themselves to each other and rule together. For he was certain, just by knowing his luck, this spelled his doom. For all he could tell, Cersei could be here within a fortnight at most, and for sure this time she’d not let Tyrion escape. That would resolve their problems, he told himself again, chuckling once more. Perhaps that’s what they needed. Cersei and her lack of humanitarian values. The biggest irony of it all? Cersei would do it. That would drive Jon Snow into confrontation and he would probably lose it, and Daenerys would as well. No matter how Tyrion looked at it, based on reality, all their paths lead to being blue eyed corpses for he was more certain than in anything else that Cersei could never defeat the dead, but she’d rather eradicate those who could just to ensure they posed no threat to her. So, Tyrion resolved, he could still dream away his days in the end, imagine a better future – for soon enough it’s bright blue eyes and rotting flesh to all of them, no matter how it comes.

*****

“Jon Snow is gone,” Missandei declared with a stern face as she closed the door behind herself.

“Gone where?” Daenerys looked up from the cards she held, first at the Naathi girl then at Jorah opposite. Jorah was teaching her a card game, for lack of better entertainment while they awaited the dead.

“That, I cannot tell,” Missandei said, obviously angry and obviously doing a poor job at hiding it. “His sisters aren’t overly forthcoming.”

“Have they hurt you,” Dany asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, they merely ignored me,” Missandei explained, “they merely shrugged their shoulders. All I could get was, ‘gone.’ That is all they would give me.”

“The cat’s away, the mice will play,” Jorah sighed looking at Daenerys.

“Perhaps they don’t know either,” the queen said.

“With your permission, I could enquire further,” Jorah stood then. “Perhaps if I asked…”

“They’ll share gladly?” Daenerys leaned back in her chair. She wasn’t phased by the news of Jon Snow gone, but for some reason, Jorah’s usual ‘with her permission’ he’ll do something unreasonable – kind of approach annoyed her this time. “Forgive me Ser Jorah, but you are no longer of the North in their eyes.”

“My queen,” Jorah began to argue, “we are stuck in this keep with no guard, and all our enemies. We ought to know what is happening, especially if Jon Snow has left the keep exactly for that reason.”

“And you would find that out,” Daenerys hissed, “Jon Snow would do no such thing. There is no need for you to ask anyone else, I am telling you now.”

“Because he gave you his word?” Missandei interrupted, clearly on Jorah’s side.

“Because he gave me his word, yes,” Daenerys stood and walked to the small window, before she turned back to them, “Also because as you said, Ser, we have no guard. If you begin to wander around this keep, who will be here to defend us? Your place is here in this chamber.”

Her argument was sound, she could see Jorah conceding. She allowed herself a sigh, her mood to play cards now gone. “Trust me, both of you, when I say, Jon Snow would do no such thing.”

She wondered which of them will point out that Jon Snow is the true heir to the Iron Throne, or that her enemies all chose to follow Jon Snow, even Jaime Lannister seemingly did, and she was indeed alone with Ser Jorah being clearly too little for the likes of the Wolf commander, for example. But neither of them spoke, so Daenerys turned back to the window, watching a pair of beavers chewing away at a branch, wondering where Jon could be now.

*****

“You gave away your birthright, Jon,” Benjen said as soon as Jon let go of him, breaking the sweet moment of reunion that they didn’t have since the day Benjen arrived at Winterfell for the feast of King Robert.

“I traded it for northern independence,” Jon said as he sat back by the fire. His eyes fell on Benjen’s hands. He studied them, wondering of his gloves, only to suddenly realise he wore no gloves at all. The black skin was his. His stare didn’t go unnoticed with Benjen.

“Once the heart has ceased to beat, a man's blood runs down into his extremities, where it thickens and congeals ... His hands and feet swell up and turn as black as pudding. The rest of him becomes as white as milk.”

“And rots…” Jon whispered, looking straight to Benjen’s face.

“Aye, rots, and smells, but there are goods in it, too. A dead man does not feel hunger, or the cold.” Benjen’s smile was warm though, it reached to Jon’s heart, gripped at it. His uncle, and yet not anymore.

“Coldhands,” Jon said then, “Because you are like them.”

“I am,” Benjen sat, and one of their guards offered him a plate of frog legs hesitantly, before turning to Jon without waiting for an answer, and Jon took a couple. Both their guards stared at Benjen, to Jon’s strange relief he was for once not the entertainment to watch.

“And yet I am not like them,” Benjen continued, “It is the magic of the Children that keeps me from turning, wholly. Much like the marshes, it keeps me alive, while my body is dead rotting away.”

“Imagine all the good the Children could do,” Quagg spoke up, “If our ancestors didn’t drive them so far north, imagine what it would be like now…” They all stared into the fire, and Jon imagined. He could imagine flourishing lands, vegetation but also farmlands that provided to all, and people, as cheesy as it was he imagined happy people smiling, walking in the forest to caves visiting the Children and sit and dine with them around the fire just as they sat now.

“You should not have given it away like that,” Benjen said then, interrupting his thoughts.

“Aye, everyone keeps reminding me, everyone keeps nagging at me endlessly about it,” Jon hissed.

“Who are you, Jon?” Benjen asked, ignoring his outburst.

“What?” Jon was as much surprised and taken aback by the question as he felt offended, caught off guard.

“Tell me Jon, who are you,” Benjen’s voice was as kind as Jon ever knew. He may have had his skin slowly rotting away on his face, pale as all those dead men Jon sent to hells before, but he was the uncle then that Jon knew, the one he could always talk to. Rough and straight forward, but also kind, fatherly as much as anyone could be.

“I am…” Jon began to answer, yet he found that he had no answer. “I am not sure, really.”

“Let me tell you who you are,” Benjen said, glancing at Reed. “You are a man of the north, with the blood of old Valyria in your veins. You are born a prince, a king, no matter how you were raised, that is what you were brought to this world for. That, and an even greater purpose. To defeat the evil that is coming for you. How can you defeat him? By uniting the people of this land, and you know that because you’ve already done it. Reed tells me of the armies that fight following your command, that they respect even admire you regardless of the sigil they bear. That is who you are. Do you understand why it is important?”

“Because if we don’t defeat the Night King, the dead will kill us all and recruit us,” Jon said firmly, “it is rather obvious.”

“No, Jon,” Benjen smiled, “It is not obvious because that is merely temporary. Why were you raised in Winterfell? Because people of Westeros fought other people of Westeros, and your father was killed. You would’ve been killed as if a mere babe could turn the world around. But you are no more a babe, you are a man grown. You can turn the world around now, and you know how.”

“I honestly do not.”

“Yes you do, it is in you,” Reed said then, “You say you don’t know it, Jon, because it is who you are. People follow you. You change their lives, you give them meaning. You open their eyes.”

“This land has suffered throughout the ages, Jon,” Benjen said, “Conquests and rebellions, wars leading to other wars because the powerful thrives to defeat the powerless until the wheel turns and others hold the power to defeat those who lost theirs. Look at your own enemy, he was created for war, to defeat our own ancestors, and he turned against his own creators just as well as he turned against us. They killed the last of the Children, Jon. There are no more. The day Bran escaped the cave with Meera Reed, the last of the children died alongside the Bloodraven. A great deal of the power and knowledge that could help our survival is gone, with them, with Bran… All this killing, for power, to rule.”

“I don’t see it,” Jon sighed, “what difference one man makes to the wheel of fortune.”

“You are not just any man,” Benjen said. “You have it all. You have the blood and the name. Your blood means you can defeat him, and you can claim this land. But you have more. You have the nature of it. Like Howland said, you lead people, because they choose to follow. That is why you can unite them. You could end this, you could stop the wheel.”

“It’s a beautiful dream,” Jon said. “Stopping the wheel. Daenerys mentioned something like that to me once, that Tyrion Lannister told her the same. So you see, whomever is deemed right to rule depends on who you ask.”

Both Benjen and Reed chuckled at that.

“Tell me Jon,” Reed asked, “Do you think that Robert Baratheon was right to rule?”

“Of course not,” Jon looked at him bemused. “For all I know he was a fat drunkard who cared little about ruling and wanted my uncle to do it all for him.”

“Now, if you asked many, including both of your uncles, twenty years ago when Robert claimed the crown, they would’ve told you what they kept chanting – that he’ll be a good king, that he’ll stop all wars and we’ll flourish… that he’ll stop the wheel, as you call it. He did no such thing.”

Quagg motioned the guards to step into position and Jon watched as they did, his mind wondering at the lesson he’s being given.

“I did believe in Robert,” Benjen said lowly, “I did because my brother did, because Robert seemed the only option forward. He was a Baratheon, he had the blood, and he won at the Trident.” He glanced at Jon. “He killed your father.”

“It was war,” Jon dismissed the resentment in the comment, “If I had a son, and I was defeated on the battlefield I would not want my son to accuse the victor of murder twenty years later.”

“You have no sons,” Reed pointed out.

“Well, it seems to me that is now just as inevitable,” Jon chuckled, “Which is ironic really. Before the council at Winterfell, when it was only my considering Dany’s proposal I told Sam I may never have sons. Or daughters. Because she can’t, and I considered accepting her proposal, revealing who I was and accepting her proposal. The council changed that, in that she didn’t back down. So now it’s all out in the open and she needs an heir.”

“By law you are her heir even if she conquers Westeros for herself,” Benjen said, “But she has no right to Westeros while you are alive. You have the stronger claim.”

“And she has the means to fight,” Jon added. “And I would never, NEVER fight her for it, even if she had nothing but herself raising her claim. She’s my only kin besides the Starks.”

“This is getting quite complicated,” Quagg pointed out shaking his head, “Jon Targaryen won’t claim his birthright because his aunt is claiming it, despite having a lesser claim. But his aunt is childless, so he is the heir. I do not see why then his aunt has to be queen at all if it comes to him anyways.”

“It does not,” Jon and Reed said in union, and Reed looked at Jon surprised.

“You are right,” Jon explained, “She will not name me her heir. That is what she came to tell me last night.”

“What then?” Benjen asked. “She’ll conquer Westeros with the rightful heir by her side doing nothing but being there?”

“Breeding,” Jon said, “Most likely. I think I said she can name my children, that is our agreement. But she said she has a better plan than naming heirs.”

Reed laughed out aloud and Jon looked at him shocked.

“You yourself said you are no politician, Howland,” Jon began, and Reed shook his head.

“No that is not why I am laughing,” Reed managed to say the words almost inaudible amidst his laughter. They all waited until he calmed in a few moments and so he continued. “It is just that she’s quite predictable, really.”

“Why, you know this plan?”  Jon was not amused.

“You don’t believe me,” Reed explained, “But I think her marriage offer is still on the table, Jon.”

“She wouldn’t,” Jon said lowly, “Her house is important to her, think what you want of her, but she is conscious of that responsibility. She wouldn’t bind me in marriage and let her house die out.”

“Not the Targaryen way,” Benjen said with a slight grin in the corner of his mouth and Reed nodded.

“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” Jon turned to his uncle, “But I don’t think I want to know.”

“It is rather obvious, as you would say,” Reed answered instead, “Aegon Targaryen had two wives, his two sisters. Your father Rhaegar had two wives, your mother was his second.”

“He had his first marriage annulled,” Jon pointed out.

“And he kept his children from that marriage legitimate, meaning they came before you in the line of succession unless he ruled otherwise during his reign, which I expect is exactly what he planned.”

“That would’ve led to war,” it was Jon’s time to chuckle, “He didn’t really plan this out, did he? It seems to me, all them fancy rules fail to keep in mind that their own children come after them.”

“Which leads back to our first point,” Benjen remarked. “Not you, you consider other things than your person. As I hear you only consider other things and people, never yourself.”

Jon sighed, for he had no answer to this. He tried to consider himself, he planned to go south and get warm. Then came Sansa and her quest to retake Winterfell and Jon got named King in the North for it. He also considered marrying Daenerys – and if he was honest with himself, in that brief time he spent preparing for this war at the Wall, staring for hours at Sansa’s ribbon, he even considered marrying Sansa – and these were for himself, as far as he could tell. Something always comes in the way.

“What do you want?” Quagg asked, and as Jon looked up he could see both Reed and Benjen nodding at the question. “If you were to chose and nothing stood in your way, what would you want?”

“Kill the Night King here and now and be done with it,” Jon said with a laugh, and they laughed with him for a moment, but soon fell silent. They looked at him in anticipation, but he had nothing to say, his mind draw a blank. He shook his head.

“Jon, how about this,” Benjen put his hand on Jon’s shoulder and he could feel the icy coldness of it through his jerkin, but still it filled him with warmth. “Reed and I will step aside for we have much to discuss besides, and you stay here and think on it. Quagg will stay so you have company if you mean to speak. Then when you have an answer, we come back and discuss it.”

Jon nodded, and they stepped aside. They sat by the riverbank where Jon sat a few hours ago awaiting Benjen’s arrival. He watched them for a while, his heart slowly taking in the sight, the truth of how he loved these two. He never really thought of such things, but perhaps war makes one thing of love more consciously. He watched as Reed removed his jerkin and Benjen placed his cold hand on the stump where his arm once was. It must’ve been some kind of healing – Reed didn’t complain since his few days of depression and acceptance of it, but Jon knew he must’ve suffered. The two men chatted and sometimes laughed, and Jon felt the need to tell them, what he wanted was for them to stay by his side. Bit he knew this was not the answer they wanted to hear, it didn’t respond to their question. The time has come, someone has asked him finally if he wanted it.

Did he want it? He looked at Quagg, watched him staring into the fire, smoking away on his long pipe, at times dozing off, his head falling only to catch himself, his eyes flinging open to stare into the flames some more.

“You know me little, Quagg,” Jon said, “Do you think I would make a good king?”

Quagg looked at him lengthily. “In truth, I do.”

“What makes you think thus?”

“Because you gave it up. I am not proud that you gave up what we hoped to help you win, but I am proud of why you did it. The people wanted to be free, so you bought them freedom. For whatever that is worth for all of us, for I think we were better off with you as our king.”

“Why were you better off?”

“When you were king, we had other people coming to fight for us, they live with us in peace and fight beside us. We had orders, we were given purpose, and I could tell that apart from your lack of understanding of the lack of worth my people have in the mainland, and I blame you not for you could not have known, you were considerate. I read those scrolls many times, the elaborate planning of them. You have a mind for it. And a heart. You can unite peoples.”

“Aye, others told me that, too,” Jon nodded, “But I don’t think it’s my achievement. It’s just the times, Quagg, we have a common enemy. As soon as we defeat the dead, all these peoples will go back killing each other.”

“Do they have to?” Quagg asked then. “Their lords and queens will tell them that is what they have to do. But if there were no such orders, if there was one ruler, do you think the peoples would go on killing each other, line up armies on battlefields and spill blood until annihilating each other?”

“We are such creatures,” Jon said softly, “We always find reason to kill, to be angry. I know I do.”

Quagg nodded at that, turning back to the fire.

“If you knew nothing of me, then suddenly you were told, here’s Jon Targaryen he’s the rightful heir, follow him, would you follow me?”

Quagg chuckled. “This is easy. I would do what my lord does.”

“You would follow command,” Jon pointed out smiling.

“No,” Quagg said as matter of fact. “Those peoples in those armies, they follow command, for most of them never spoke a word with those who issue those commands. I would follow my friend, who happens to be my lord. See, it is easy, he has the responsibility to decide, I do not. He will ask for my opinion and I will advise him, and he will decide. Then I will follow. I have it easy, for my lord is easy to follow. He is one of the greatest men I have ever known.”

“Who else?” Jon asked, purely out of interest.

“You, Jon Targaryen.” The answer surprised Jon, it shocked him, as he looked into the grey eyes staring back at him and saw the appreciation in them. “You are a great man, and you can’t see it because you are humble. Where would we be without you? What would happen to us if you didn’t come down from Castle Black? We’d be still ruled by that Bolton bastard, and the dead would be coming all the same. My only consolation would be that the dead would reach him first. But then he’d be marching on the Neck, too, and all those men and women and children you saved would be too. Your sister the queen would be too. Gods she is a beauty, but her face would rot all the same, her eyes would turn all the same.”

“All these peoples came for you, you convinced them.”

“I may have tricked them,” Jon chuckled.

“That is I believe what rulers do,” Quagg laughed, “trick people into believing that their own agendas matter less than the common good.”

Jon sighed, as they both turned to watch the flames. He sat for a moment, his mind empty. For some reason he couldn’t tell, and definitely not by his will, but just like when training kicks in during a fight, his mind began to collect thoughts, truths he came to realise, that he came to learn, even lessons that old Master Lewin gave him when he was a boy. Ned Stark’s face was before him as if it appeared from the flames, the way he used to watch him, that knowing look Jon could never name. He knew what he wanted. What he truly wanted, for the first time in his life, he knew what he would want to do with his life. As if it mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long hiatus! life got in the way massively, but last night something sparked so I took to write - instead of what I was supposed to do - and by now I'm nearing the end of the chapter AFTER this one. So what could I give you for waiting so long? Two chapters tonight perhaps? ;)


	41. Greywater Watch IV.

_“The end is near, we will win this war! Join Aegon Targaryen, join your rightful king and fight our enemy by our side. The forces are to meet south the Neck, all the Northern forces, all the Lannister forces and all the Targaryen forces sailed too. This will be the biggest army the word has ever seen, and when we defeated the dead, we will place Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Come and join us, now!”_

*****

“Quagg, would you…”

“Call them back, yes.” The man already stood, not even waiting for his thanks.

Benjen and Reed returned shortly after with Quagg and sat down by the fire in silence.

“I would claim it,” Jon said lowly, “If it was what I wanted, I would claim it. If I didn’t, then uncle Ned lived half his life in a lie for nothing, he died for nothing, my father died for nothing and thousands upon thousands died for nothing. As I see it, what came with Robert Baratheon was exactly what should’ve been avoided, a different kind of madness, and power games, Lannisters and Tyrells and even Starks… It was the same shit as before, with a different name to it. I would claim the Iron Throne to make a change, to try to, and I would try to. And I would claim it to unite the people to defeat the Night King and everyone else who would come to oppose us, because this land needs to grow strong again or it’ll become prey to others, perhaps even from Essos.”

“And what would you do after we all united defeated the common enemy?” Benjen asked.

“That is a much harder question, but I suppose it is what matters, is it not? I would claim the Seven Kingdoms. I know I gave it up for independence, but I didn’t consider what it meant. The North is poor, it spent hundreds of years closely tied to the south and it has no plans to what comes after if it remained independent, because it cannot have a sustainable plan, or one that sustains its people without famine and devastation. The time for independence has passed, this is not the Age of Heroes, divided the kingdoms would be conquered by others. United they can grow stronger.”

“And what would you do about how the Seven Kingdoms is being ran, Jon,” Reed asked.

“I would try to stop the power plays, but I am not a great politician, you know that Howland. I would not name a council, but I would not rule alone. I suppose I would do something Sam spoke of to me once, have the kingdoms elect their representatives. Like a senate, he called it. One lord, one commoner, one soldier of each kingdom. Then those would represent their lands, and after a set time they’d have to be replaced by others. They can’t be re-elected. Say, for a year, perhaps.”

“This is just an idea, or rather, a few ideas, perhaps there would be more if I thought of it. I would build a standing army, and I would build a bank, so the taxes people pay to the crown could be allocated to it, or part of the taxes. Then I would use the same method to elect its leaders, and people could appeal, kingdoms could, or even common farmers could if they needed funds, so no one would be left behind when they needed aid, and perhaps it’d help empower the people and close the gap between the ruling class and the rest.”

“I remember Master Lewin said things like, the kingdoms are powerful once more because they are granted control in their lands. I would balance that by guarding forces and representatives. I would take control of the Citadel. And I would task the masters to build schools, so everyone who wishes to can learn their letters and their numbers. People have a chance to be who they want to be, not bound by whom they were born to.” He looked at Reed lengthily, both understanding the reference behind his words.

“But this is not to be, I gave it up,” he finished. “There were things done that are irreversible, I gave up my right to claim the Iron Throne, and I named Sansa Queen. The North named her Queen. Daenerys is here, with her armies and dragons, and Cersei Lannister still sits on the Iron Throne. She would not give it up at my asking. Thus, this is all not to be. No point pondering on it any further.”

Reed smiled.

“Just one question,” he said, “Who would come after you? I am genuinely interested.”

“That I do not know. Perhaps no one. Perhaps I could build a system that can sustain itself after I am gone, I would use my time to build it. Perhaps I would wed, perhaps I would not. You called me prized meat once, I would not want to be prized meat. Perhaps I would find a way to wed whom I would choose, and then I would, but I very much doubt it.”

“You should still try though,” Quagg grinned, “It a good thing, you know. Good for the mind, and the soul.”

“I didn’t know you were wed, Quagg,” Jon was glad for the change of topic.

“Aye, I am, she and three of my five are on Dragonstone, or so I hope. The elder two are in the marshes guiding some wolves. You need a family, Jon Targaryen, and a woman who can set your mind at ease. One that makes your heart skip a beat and your lungs hold your breath every time she comes in sight, one that makes you feel like you’re home every time she looks at you.”

Jon laughed silently. “What if those are done by different women?”

Benjen glanced to side, toward Jon with a raised eyebrow.

“Well then, you’re a Targaryen,” Quagg said laughing, “wed them both. That is the Targaryen way, after all.”

“Somehow I don’t think that would ever be possible,” Jon said still laughing, “They would kill each other in no time. Would you forgive me,” He said as he stood. Benjen looked questioningly at him. Soon they could hear it.

“You have a visitor,” Benjen said, eager anticipation in his eyes. “Reed told me you are close to one of them. I saw it save you at the Long Lake.”

“Aye, he did,” Jon smiled, watching the dragon land on a small patch of land, carefully. The fire they sat around almost blew out still from the winds of his wings. “His name is Rhaegal. And from what I can tell he chose me as his rider.”

“Go on, ride then,” Benjen laughed, and Jon looked back at a nodding Reed.

“Go on, Jon,” Reed said as well, “I sense you could use a bit of that freedom you get when you’re up in the air.”

Jon grinned, nodding, because it was true. He remembered the sound of the wolves howling as he flew past above the Wolfswood when he first rode Rhaegal. He wondered if they will howl now, they were here somewhere.

Rhaegal lowered his wing even before Jon moved, and they all smiled at the gesture. The connection between dragon and rider was so apparent, as Jon walked close and reached out his hand the dragon nudged his nozzle into the palm so tiny compared to his head, and Jon climbed on, much more eloquently than that first time he remembered. Rhaegal gave a kick to the ground as he launched, straight up high into the dark clouds of the night. Jon wondered what ever he could see, and even more so, whether he will freeze up here.

There was no reason to worry, Rhaegal flew low enough, almost touching the top of the treeline, and indeed there were direwolves howling in greeting once more, causing Jon to laugh aloud. They flew east at first, past Saltspear, before they turned, and Jon could see the abandoned Barrowton. The air grew thick rapidly, and Jon didn’t need to instruct Rhaegal to fly high.

He could see them. As he flew past Castle Cerwyn toward the south once more, completing his circle, they were standing below. He was shocked. The creatures he saw…. Dear Gods, he thought. He saw bears and shadowcats before, he thought there was nothing that could surprise him. Ice spiders. He thought that’s what they were, massive two-part bodies and legs reaching out in circle, and they had jaws as far as he could tell, one was chewing on a deer! At least Jon hoped it was a wight deer, not a living breathing one. They were all standing, waiting. They were lined up past the line Jon and company left behind at Castle Cerwyn. There were no new horses as far as he could tell, so he assumed the men escaped as planned. He could only hope that they reached the marches, that they managed to cross the barricades with the help of the crannogmen who were waiting for them there, for he couldn’t see them. They were past the line of vegetation where it grows dense. Jon thought of burning the road once more, and Rhaegal dived in.

Jon looked around, but no one was in sight, their former camp site stood abandoned except the ‘burnable’ wood and materials they left behind for exactly that purpose. He decided not to do it, not just yet. They were standing, if he burned the camp now it’d all burn down way too soon to become a meaningful barricade for the army of the dead. Instead he flew past in line with the road, watching as heads peaked out, some even raised his sword in greeting. Wolves positioned at these posts. He felt prepared, the men were in position and he felt that his random fly-by perhaps raised spirits enough for what was surely soon to come. His mind began to go through the plan, as Rhaegal flew ahead, and he didn’t watch much for the surroundings anymore. Between the details of their attacks and their escapes, trying to recall every position, every attack, his mind kept wandering away to the realisation that he felt belonging. He felt that up here was his place to be. He didn’t notice when they cleared the marches, the first sight of the South being the Twins that reminded him, he was no longer in the North.

If he was King, he’d take control of the Frey lands, he thought decisively. It’s been too long the Freys controlled everything crossing the Trident, and it gave them too much power. The Freys were gone, albeit Walder’s dozens of children surely hoped to claim inheritance, but there were so many of them, who would carve up the land? It was not worth it, they’d kill each other for more. The Twins could not be in the control of anyone but the reigning king. The gateway between North and South, and if Jon was that king he’d create a free zone where people could dwell. He’d abolish taxation for crossing, he thought. And the Twins were in a sorry state, he would rebuild it. Grand plans, he chuckled to himself, and dreams, for nothing would come of them.

Rhaegal followed the Green Fork, and Jon wondered if the dragon ever flew this way before, perhaps with Daenerys on some other random flight of discovery in the night. If she hasn’t done this, she certainly should, Jon thought, and made a mental note to tell her thus that made him chuckle.

Tiny wooden structure with stables around it, horses. Life. Men quarrelling below, small like ants and Jon considered flying higher but decided against. Let them see. It was really nothing, for the news of Daenerys’ arrival on Dragonstone and the Lannister defeat at Blackwater Rush must be common knowledge by now, word does travel fast among the people who like the gossip of the lords and ladies.

The men looked up, Jon could make out the sheer awe in their eyes, even from as high as he was by now, Rhaegal keeping safe distance. He urged the dragon to get higher still, not much due to any danger for he could not imagine any that could endanger a dragon, but more for the ability to see. Harrenhal. The place of legends, the castle so mighty that was burned down by dragonfire melting the stone towers themselves, and the lord Harren within one of them.

Suddenly, Rhaegal ducked and turned to side while Jon was still staring back at Harrenhal, taking in its sight. He had to suddenly grip not to fall as the dragon took a full circle in the sky before shooting straight into the cloud above. As he looked down he could still see it, the motion so swift. A spear flew past beyond them. A fucking spear, Jon thought. There was danger ahead. And he wanted to see.

He flew above the clouds south, without any visibility of what was below, right to the point of being able to make out the faint sight of a tiny Kings Landing in the distance, causing him to grin at how tiny and vulnerable it looked, then Rhaegal turned.

“Careful, brother,” Jon whispered, “Whatever it is, it has means to harm you, like Viserion. Fly straight in and at any sight of danger, roll to side and shoot for the sky.”

As if Rhaegal needed any explaining, Jon thought. The dragon grew accustomed to it at White Harbor, at Winterfell. He learned by now how to fight and how to defend himself.

They dove in steep, through the clouds, and almost straight on top a vast army. Jon could not believe his eyes! What in seven hells was this, a marching army, an army marching north… Gods be good!

His instinct told him these were no friendly forces, he could’ve told so even without the spear launched at him earlier. They turned, scrambled completely unsurprised at the sight of the dragon. They had giant cross bow like weapons, on wheels, and turned these now, but Rhaegal was fast, way faster than any wheeled weapon that they could turn on him. Some shot spears in the sky, but they weren’t the Night King – they fell way too short below the dragon.

What concerned Jon were the animals with them. Elephants? He recalled a drawing of them. This was the fucking Golden Company! And considering from the size of the marching army, this was indeed all 20 thousand of it! He watched as their commanders scrambled, horses turned, archers got in position. They clearly thought they were being attacked, but Jon had no intention to attack them. He wanted to see them, now that they knew who these forces were, he wanted to study them. They had thousands of cavalry, perhaps six, eight thousand… archers. Those carried lances as well. They had about thirty elephants, no more than three dozen. Armed. Seats on their backs, spears thrown by men there could almost reach Rhaegal’s wings. An elephant stood up on its back legs, its trunk reaching high for Rhaegal’s right leg and finally, Rhaegal rolled to side and shot for the sky, but not as high as disappearing into the clouds. Not just yet. They dove in once more, Jon wanted to see how many led them. About a dozen commanders scrambled in the middle of the front line. By a sudden thought, Jon flew close and as they flew past he waved at them. He laughed, watching their faces turn. Then Rhaegal shot up into the clouds.

Reed told Jon that Cersei bought the Golden Company. They were marching North, in this moment. Jon had to get back to Greywater Watch, he had to get back to Jaime Lannister and find out what he knew. And, he had to do it extremely discreetly, for Jaime’s protection. The fact that he was protective of Jaime Lannister was something new, but he didn’t ponder on it. The man may know nothing, he’s spent the most of the last two moons in the North. He may not be aware of recent developments. One thing was certain, Jon didn’t believe for a second that the Golden Company would march North to aid them in their fight. No, they were marching North to attack them. Jon dove in, trying to find the camp, but changed his mind just as he took sight of it and shot up. He didn’t want unsullied or Dothraki to see him without their queen, on a dragon’s back, lest they draw conclusions that were untrue, lest they believe their queen in danger, and turn on the small Lannister force camped to their side.

The rest of his way he merely wondered at what the Company looked like. They seemed formidable. When the Wolves marched out of White Harbor, to show Jon their strength, they seemed formidable, too. Every time they were behind him, Jon felt invincible. But it seemed to him now, the Wolves were indeed no match to the Golden Company. Perhaps that is why Edric’s forefathers took to breed wolves, to gain a level of advantage over a force equipped with enormous but slow animals like elephants. Elephants could trample dozens of fighting men, but not if they are attacked by a dozen of direwolves at once. Animals are instinctual, Jn thought, at danger they panic. Well done, Edric, I may yet have use of that.

The reason that it was in preparation against the Golden Company wasn’t questioned by Jon. Edric was so anti-Targaryen, all of them were. The Golden Company was a pro-Targaryen company. Jon found that he knew nothing of them, really. They were founded by a Blackfyre, right? No, Aegor Rivers. Bittersteel. It was led by Blackfyres, fought for Blackfyres in their rebellions against the Targaryens. The Blackfyres were gone. Jon wondered who led the company now, if they were similar to the wolves, holding up a straight up, radical version of their original values, claiming to be exiled Westerosi still.

Rhaegal landed, and as Jon literally slid off the lowered wing instead of climbing, he was already shouting for Reed. The men rose slowly, sleepishly, except Reed and Benjen. Reed needed little sleep, Jon reminded himself. Benjen needed none at all.

“I take it your flight was interesting,” Reed remarked, “For you look like a five-year-old on his nameday after he broke the rocking horse he’s been gifted.”

“You and your… ah forget it,” Jon said. “It was interesting and resourceful. We must make for Greywater Watch, now. And Benjen is to come with us. We have to call in the wolves from the woods, to o south and near the camp there.”

“What have you seen?”

“Ice spiders and elephants, Howland,” Jon said, watching as the men lit torches and got to the task to swiftly dismantle the camp.

“I cannot go with you,” Benjen declared.

“You must,” Jon argued, “I have need of you.”

“You do, but I cannot aid you there, you know I cannot,” Benjen smiled softly, “Let me go Jon, I will await you.”

“Where?”

“The God’s Eye. Draw them there. You can kill him there.”

Jon sighed. As if it was this easy, considering what he just saw.

“I wish you good fortune, Jon,” Benjen said.

“We will meet again, right?” Jon asked. There was so much he wanted to ask, all this time wasted on discussing ruling was for nothing.

“Aye, we will meet again, one last time. And you will kill him, I am sure of it,” Benjen said.

“At least one of us is,” Jon added, his stare falling to the ground.

He felt icy hands gripping his shoulders. “Look at me, Jon,” Benjen demanded and so he did.

“Who are you?” Benjen asked. “Who are you?!”

“I am Jon Targaryen,” Jon answered. “And I am the fucking prince that was promised. There, I said it.”

“Good, now go and do what you were promised for,” Benjen said, “and stop sulking, you are who you said you are. It is time you owned it. Nothing is beyond your reach Jon, be who you were born to be. What did Aemon tell you? Let the man be born. The man has been born, now let him stand tall and straight and do his duty. Be who you are meant to be, Jon Targaryen.”

With that, Benjen let go of him and turned, he swiftly mounted his horse and galloped away without any further goodbye. Jon could still feel the cold tingling on his shoulders, the ache that his touch left.

They quickly boarded their boat, and at first Jon spoke nothing, watching as Rhaegal departed as well, reminding the dragon to keep clear of the north, and now the south as well. To tell his brother. Laughing at himself that he was mentally lecturing dragons now, at the warmth of the response he felt. Rhaegal appreciated it, still. Jon turned to Reed.

“In the north, the fight at Castle Cerwyn is already over for a while now. The men are safely at their new position along the road, as far as I could tell. I saw no major casualties. The dead are standing in wait. They have ice spiders with them and they are enormous. They are dreadful, I saw one chewing up a whole deer in seconds. There is about two dozen of them. They number about sixteen-eighteen thousand at most, but they still have bears and shadowcats. They didn’t see me, their birds weren’t with them, so I presume they were scouting the marshlands.”

“As I said the men are in position. Thy seemed to be in good spirits as well, those that showed themselves to me did. What concerns me is the south. The Golden Company is marching north, they just reached Harrenhal. From what I could tell, all twenty thousand of them are there, they have ballistae, huge cross bows on wheels. They shot at us, so we flew into the clouds, and then again dove in behind them. They have elephants, thirty perhaps three dozen. About eight thousand strong cavalry, their archers carry spears. They have about two dozen of those cross-bow weapons, they are hard and slow to manoeuvre, and just as slow to load.”

“I don’t think they mean to join us in our fight,” Quagg said lowly.

“No, Cersei Lannister paid them before the summit at Kings Landing,” Reed added.

“You know this how?” Jon asked.

“Because I made some friends,” Reed explained, “I spent some time in the free cities, and I made some friends, Jon. And I acquired you a sword.”

“You never told me how,” Jon pointed out with an appreciative smile.

“You never asked,” Reed grinned. “I would love to say it was due to some grand plan and such a great accomplishment, but in truth, it was merely a drunken evening at a tavern.”

“You,” Jon’s eyes grew wild, “got drunk?”

“Oh no I did not,” Reed laughed, “But Harry Strickland did. He leads the Golden Company now, and I joined them at their table admiring their armour, recognising them, praising them, paying a few rounds for them…” Quagg was already grinning. “Quagg here jumped into service as a waitor, slipped a little something into their drinks… I cannot give you all our trade secrets Jon. Suffice it to say, they soon experienced the stuff Quagg sometimes mixes into the leaves he dries for his pipe. On those days he smokes it, he talks nonsense. He flies high as he calls it. Thus, they had a taste, and the next day, Strickland had no sword.”

I cannot call it very honourable,” Jon laughed.

“Fuck honour, Jon Targaryen,” Quagg joined his laughter as he said thus, “We got the sword. The man who wields that sword by tradition commands their company.”

“No, the tradition is that the company follows the man with the sword,” Jon pointed out, “If they follow this Strickland guy, they follow him without the sword.”

“Because they have no clue who’s got the sword. They met a small bony Westerosi who bought them some drinks. That is all for they won’t remember the rest.”

“The next time they see you they’ll know what you’ve done.”

“The next time they see me,” Reed gave him an expecting look, “I will stand beside Jon Targaryen wielding Blackfyre. I merely returned the sword to where it should be.”

“It’s not a Targaryen sword, it’s a Blackfyre sword,” Jon reasoned, “The Blackfyres fought the Targaryens for the Iron Throne how many times, five?”

“The Blackfyres are gone, Jon,” Reed argued passionately, “Do you remember how eager Edric was to cut a deal with you? To return home after his forefathers exiled themselves three hundred years ago? I listened to the likes of Jon Connington. They want to return home. Do you know who Jon Connington is?”

“I admit I’ve no clue,” Jon shook his head.

“He is the man who will give you the Golden Company,” Reed declared triumphantly as he’s just won some kind of tournament. “He served your father and served the Mad King briefly as his hand at the start of Robert’s rebellion before he was exiled thanks to being defeated by Robert. The man has some weird qualities about him, he was once lord of Griffin’s Roost. He doesn’t look dissimilar to Tormund to be truthful, albeit much leaner and taller, but his beard is just as fiery red. He was friend to your father, and from what I could tell, he had other kind of feelings as well for I asked him about your father and he sang Rhaegal’s praises, not just of valour but of beauty as well. He had such a beautiful soul, it was only matched by his outer beauty, he said. It took all of me not to laugh.”

“And how will this Jon Connington give me the Golden Company?” Jon wasn’t convinced, not at all.

“He rose in their ranks. Not only that, but I know for certain that they had no intention to serve another Targaryen. I asked them about it, they said they feasted with Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen once. They said they laughed at the Targaryen fool that was Viserys.”

“Why would they serve me then,” Jon wondered.

“Because of your father, Jon Targaryen,” Quagg interrupted.

“That is what I count on,” Reed agreed. “Strickland may lead the company, but he’s lost the sword. He must’ve lost some respect with it, too. Imagine if the sword turned up, wielded by Rhaegar’s son. One of those commanders you saw, was Jon Connington I am sure of it, if all their strength is on the march. I say we should call for a parley and introduce you.”

“I already introduced myself,” Jon grinned, “I waived at their commanders from atop Rhaegal’s back before I left them be.”

“This is so good, it could not have been planned better,” Quagg laughed.

“I agree,” Reed said. “We should go south and meet up with them.”

“How exactly will we do that? What if they don’t turn? What about Jaime Lannister? And Daenerys, her Dothraki are joining forces!” Jon had countless questions.

“We take both of them with us.” Quagg declared.

“Aye, but first you, Jon, have some explaining to do,” Reed said, “And I will not have you do it alone, I will be there. We will explain to Daenerys the truth exactly as it is.”

“Which truth is that now?” Jon shook his head. More scheming, he didn’t like it at all.

“Nothing about the Iron Throne, but she needs to appear in support of you not to present an alternative.”

“She won’t surrender her claim, Howland,” Jon pointed out angrily. “Don’t ask me to tell her that. I gave my word.”

“I would not ask you to tell her that,” Reed said kindly, “We will tell her of the sword, and we will tell her why I took it, after what Jon Connington told me. And I will remind her that I did this because I wanted you on the throne, but we cannot fight on two fronts now can we? We have to get to the God’s Eye, Jon. Meaning we either defeat the Golden Company in our way, or we turn them.”

Jon nodded and neither of them spoke again. He wondered if Reed had this planned all along and came to the conclusion that Reed must’ve planned it differently. Perhaps Reed wanted to recruit the Golden Company and claim the Iron Throne. The dead came, and Jon brought the other two contenders to the table. The Golden Company contracted itself to Cersei, meaning they were not for sale, they were obliged. Either they turn on a contract, which as far as Jon knew no sellsword company ever did easily, or they fight Jon, regardless of what sword he carried. It must’ve been a lot more complicated than how Reed planned it when he took the opportunity to take the sword.

They reached Greywater Watch seemingly much sooner than planned. The keep was asleep, and Jon asked Reed that they spoke to Jaime first, so Quagg brought a sleepish Jaime to Reed’s chambers.

“This is rather odd,” Jaime murmured as he entered.

“I mean to speak to you before I speak to Daenerys,” Jon began, watching as Quagg ushered Jaime to the bowl of cold water. Jaime sprinkled water on his face and turned.

“In the middle of the night,” he said amused, “It must be worth it.”

“You tell me, Ser Jaime,” Jon said kindly, “And before I tell you what it is, you must know that I am not accusing you of anything. I want you to know what I know, to tell me if there is anything I don’t know that you do, and then do as I ask you.”

“You sound like the king you are no longer,” Jaime pointed out, still somewhat amused. “This little daytrip of yours must’ve done you good then.”

“Here’s what I know,” Jon began, dismissing the comment that he could not decide whether it was mocking him or praising him. “The Golden Company, paid for by your sister, is marching North with all its strength and its elephants. They are at Harrenhal, and they are not friendly to dragons.”

“She bought them to defeat Daenerys,” Jaime said, sinking into a chair, “of course they would not be friendly to her dragons. I presume you rode one to go and see this.”

Jon merely nodded.

“Seven hells,” Jaime murmured, “Sometimes I wonder if my sister is actually stupid. If she can see anything beyond her own desire to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“So, they are not marching to join us,” Quagg pointed out what became obvious.

“I don’t see how they could,” Jaime said lowly, “I don’t think Cersei would do that. She didn’t even give me half of my own men to march North with. She said they were needed to keep the peace in the city and in the Crownlands, when they recovered. I had three thousand lightly wounded, who could’ve healed on the march.”

Jaime looked at Jon, straight into his grey eyes. “If you ask whether I’ve known she planned this…”

“I do not ask,” Jon said. “You remained in the North Ser Jaime, that means something to me.”

“Good,” Jaime said. “I know nothing else, I am afraid. I didn’t know they were on the march – I didn’t even know that they arrived. I don’t exchange ravens with my sister, not for a long while. Since the Wall really.”

“Tell me, Ser Jaime,” Reed said then, “When this war is over, will you go back to her?”

Jaime looked at Reed lengthily. “If we speak truth now, I doubt I personally have anywhere to go after this war, Lord Reed.”

“Well then, I suggest you come home with us,” Reed said, and Quagg nodded. Jon was rather surprised at how easily this offer came forward, but no less grateful for it, he found. “When the war is over, if you choose to, you are welcome at Greywater Watch.”

“And what use would I be here,” Jaime said, “You’d tire of me easily, my Lord.”

“Well for one, you have a left hand. I don’t” Reed grinned, “and I have a right hand which you don’t. There’s plenty to do at Greywater Watch, if you are ready to turn your back on Kings Landing as you say you are. It isn’t as fancy, and there is labour for all, lords and stableboys alike, and…”

“I take it,” Jaime interrupted as he stood and stepped in front of Reed. “I thank you for the offer. I shall take it, gratefully.”

“Good!” Quagg laughed, “You’ll like it here, Ser. We are good folk and you like frog legs!”

“Yes, I already like it here…” Jaime smiled at Quagg, “and I will find it hard to wear my own clothing after this.” He looked down on himself. “For this alone I would return.”

“Thank you, Howland,” Jon said softly.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Reed returned Jon’s smile, “I considered this for a while, Ser Jaime is a good man. If we judged every man by their past deeds and looked beyond who they became, there would be no man left in this world. Ser Jaime will like it with us, I agree.”

“I cannot find the words,” Jaime whispered. “Both of you, you never treated me the way I deserved to be treated, for the things I’ve done. You are great men, far greater than a Lannister ever was.”

“You are the second man to tell Jon Targaryen today that he’s a great man,” Quagg said laughing, “Perhaps one day he will believe so himself.”

“I’d rather not,” Jon argued, “Such beliefs aren’t good for a man’s pride, are they now.”

“You said to do as you tell me to,” Jaime returned to their original topic, “What would you have me do?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Ride south with me and take control of your forces. We may have to fight the Company. But before that, sit back in that chair, and tell Daenerys everything I told you. Tell her you know it from your sister asking you to leave us, for we are to be attacked.”

Reed and Quagg both looked at Jon surprised.

“What?” Jon asked them, “You both counsel me to be who I was meant to be. The man I am meant to be will not have any accusation or suspicion out of the situation we are in. We need Daenerys to join this, and not to doubt Ser Jaime, so it is the best way.”

“And you are not doing the lying,” Reed added.

“Aye, I am not the one doing the lying,” Jon’s gaze returned to Jaime.

“Have no worry,” Jaime grinned, “That lie will be the least of my sins. It is for my benefit, I told far bigger lies to save my sorry ass.”

Quagg left the room swiftly, to fetch Daenerys. Preferably alone, Jon thought.

 


	42. Greywater Watch V.

“So how do I compare to the fat king?”

“You’re insulting my late husband.” Cersei sipped from the cup in her hand. What’s done is done, she thought. It wasn’t anything she hasn’t done before, after all, as the idiot himself pointed it out.

“Are you insulted?” He stopped next to her. Why can’t he just leave?

“Robert had a different whore every night, but he still didn’t know his way around a woman’s body.” If you want to talk, let’s talk. It wasn’t like this is going to offend her, like it ever could.

“And the Kingslayer?” She shot an icy look at him. Perhaps let’s not talk, then.

“You enjoy risking your neck, don’t you?” He looked away from her, grinning. He enjoyed it, indeed, she thought. Have your fun, you idiot, she thought. It won’t last long.

“Life is boring,” he remarked as if he spoke some ancient phrase.

“You’re not boring, I give you that.” It wasn’t meant to be a compliment, but Cersei could see that he took it as one, anyway, as he stepped close to stand in front of her.

“Do I please the queen?” Are you asking for my approval now? She allowed herself one of her triumphant smiles, just a little. He was indeed an idiot.

“You might be the most arrogant man I’ve ever met,” she said, carefully pronouncing her words. If this idiot only knew who he stood in front of. No one could play this game better than her. “I like that.” He smiled, it seemed to her that he smiled in honest. It was what he wanted to hear, and so he believed it. They always do. He leaned down and placed his hand on her belly. Her baby.

“I’m going to put a prince in your belly,” he whispered, ad Cersei gave him a smile. Let him think that, he already thinks it. Let him believe it. He walked away from her, finally.

 

“I have a task for you,” she called after him.

“I brought you an army, task them.”

She turned to look at him, her face somewhat resembling a woman in need.

“I can’t,” she said softly. “The task involves ships. Your ships. Besides, I gave a task for Strickland already, and he’s on his way to execute it. Mind you, he wanted Dragonstone because that is what I promised him for his service, but I talked him out of it. He is not the greatest captain of the Seven Seas, after all.”

He stood still. Good, he was listening.

“I sent them North to finish the bastard. But you,” she smiled once more, “You’ll not be wasting your time with a bastard. I have something much more important for you.”

He gave her a slight grin. He was interested.

“I want you to take Dragonstone.” She held up a scroll and to her dismay, he rushed back. She didn’t show him.

“It is nothing but propaganda,” she said. “Some idiot spills their secrets to gain more forces, sending these meaningless scrolls to all the lesser houses of the southern kingdoms. But…” she looked up, wide smile on her face, “it says the forces have left Dragonstone. The previous one said that it’s full of northern refugees. Do you see where I am going with this?”

“Oh, I will enjoy the task you give me, woman,” Euron grinned, “Perhaps not as much as I enjoyed your bed, but when I return, I shall bring you some more gifts. A famous carved table for a start.”

“I would rather have a different gift,” Cersei stared into her glass as she spoke, “I would have me a dwarf.”

“You believe the Imp to be on Dragonstone?”

“Where else?” Cersei stood and walked to the balcony. The city was buzzing below, caring very little of impending war and battles in the North, or dead men marching south.

“She took him to Winterfell, then northern refugees landed on Dragonstone while she went off to ride her dragons into battle. She would send him to Dragonstone, to organise this. To keep his worthless mind at the ready and alive when she has need of him next.”

She turned toward Euron. “Bring me the Imp.”

Euron grinned. “And what about your other brother?”

Cersei didn’t flinch. “Strickland will bring me his head. But the Imp – I want him alive.”

Euron bowed in front of her, before he finally left the room and she turned back toward the city, her mind racing away at all the ways she would repay Tyrion Lannister for what all he’s done. For Tommen, for Myrcella, for the Tyrells, for father… for mother. It was long overdue, and it was time for payback. She will enjoy this.

*****

Daenerys entered the room, still wondering about the request. A secret council, Quagg told him. Missandei rose and Ser Jorah, sleeping in a chair jumped to take his sword too, but the queen was invited alone, Quagg was adamant.

They didn’t want her to leave with the man. But Jon Snow was there, Quagg said, do they really believe Jon Snow to harm the queen? In the end Daenerys waved them to stay.

“It is indeed a secret council,” she remarked, looking around the faces in the room, “I see the Queen in the North is not in attendance.”

“She will be told, but I mean for you to hear this first for I need your help,” Jon said without hesitation.

“Not your sister’s help,” Daenerys remarked.

“No, not Sansa’s help,” Jon said annoyed, “It is not Sansa whose Dothraki are landing just south of the Neck. I need you to command your armies, we may have a battle to fight.”

This had her interest. “A battle, south the Neck?” she turned to Ser Jaime. “It is your sister, is it not? She betrayed us.”

Jaime nodded. “She has the Golden Company marching North to attack us from behind while we fight the dead,” he rushed the words. “Twenty thousand strong, with elephants.”

“And you know this, how?” Daenerys asked.

“A raven.”

“A raven to Greywater Watch,” Daenerys wasn’t convinced, and truly, it didn’t sound convincing.

“I went and saw,” Jon said then. So much for lies. “I wanted to see if it was true, and I saw them. They are at Harrenhal.”

“The melted castle?” Daenerys sunk into a chair. “It took us merely a week to reach the Twins from there. They’ll be here in a week.”

“Which is why we must act, now,” Reed said. “Your grace, you asked me if I wanted Jon on the Throne, and I never denied it. You never asked me how I meant to make that happen, but to cut the story short, I acquired him a gift. One that I believe may turn the Golden Company.”

“They never broke a contract,” Jaime said, “They will not turn.”

“I believe they will, for this,” Reed walked to Jon and drew his sword from his side.

“An old Valyrian blade,” Daenerys said, “Jon said so himself.”

“This is not just any blade, your grace,” Reed said, “True, you cannot see it now, and I would rather not break its cover until it is time. But it has a bright ruby worked into the handle.”

“Blackfyre.” Jaime stood and rushed to see the blade. “This sword is legend, then, not a mere blade, but pure legend.” He took the sword and raised it close to candle light to study the blade.

“How will the sword turn the Golden Company?”

“Reed believes it could be used because their leader traditionally wields this sword,” Jon explained.

“Not only that,” Reed added, “But because some in the leading ranks were loyal to Rhaegar Targaryen before. True, the Golden Company traditionally is a Blackfyre company, against Targaryens. But the Blackfyres are gone, and many of those who exiled during or after Robert’s rebellion joined sellsword companies in Essos, many are in the ranks of the Golden Company. Some of those I believe would follow Rhaegar’s son, and the sword, combined.”

“How do we convince them that Jon is Rhaegar’s son?” Jaime asked, “Forgive me, but we don’t have Bran Stark, and I would not recommend Samwell Tarly to be in the midst of that battle if this doesn’t work out. Even so, his word is just as meaningless to them as anyone’s here.”

“It may not work,” Reed said, “But if it does, it will because of the diary.”

“Sansa has it,” Jon said, “I never read it. I couldn’t.”

“The diary names Jon Connington in a story. Quotes from a letter he wrote to Rhaegar. That will confirm Jon’s identity, for it also confirms of his existence. Jon’s bastard name and upbringing will do the rest. They may not wholly believe us, but we may sow the seed of doubt enough. That is all we need, if they don’t fight Jon, they will fight for him when the dead reach us.”

“Are we to follow the plan then,” Daenerys asked, “I would rather recall our forces and group south to meet the Company. Show our strength.”

“We would give up the best ground we have to reduce their numbers,” Quagg said, “Forgive me, for interrupting.”

“No Quagg, speak up,” Reed’s voice was firm, “You are part of this council.”

“Then I say, leave the wolves where they are. Our folk will lead them out as planned, and we will join you.” He glanced at Jon, “We’ll poison our arrows, too.”

Jon nodded appreciatively.

“I am not seeing why my presence was required,” Daenerys remarked.

“Because I gave you my word,” Jon said, “And because your forces are grouping south. I told you, I need you to command them. If this doesn’t work, we have to fight our way through the Company before the dead reach us.”

“Forgive me, I am no military mastermind,” Daenerys said, “But why do we have to fight them? Why not withdrawing our forces, to Dragonstone. They are marching toward each other. The dead will give us the Iron Throne, Jon.”

“No they won’t,” Jon shook his head. “Remember Dany, what have I told you. The south is way more populated than the North, and it has not been evacuated, we know that now, too. If we withdraw now, all we’ll achieve is they’ll turn the Company to their side. All our work to turn a hundred thousand to twenty would be for nothing. Bran and Viserion would have died for nothing. The dead would have an open road to the south, to millions of souls undefended.”

Daenerys sighed. “They may defeat them, though. Them and their elephants.”

“They cannot defeat HIM,” Reed said. “As long as he lives, he will raise the dead, he may lose his army, he’ll raise another.”

“He raised century old skeletons at the Lake,” Jon added, “Imagine what he would do in the south… we dug up our cemeteries and emptied our crypts, evacuated our people. They have done nothing of the sort.”

“So because you say only Jon can defeat HIM,” Daenerys summed up, “our forces, not the northern forces will line up to fight the Golden Company.”

“Is this not what you came for?” Jaime turned to Daenerys, “They were bought to defeat YOU. Not Jon, not the dead, but you, your grace. Defeat them, and my sister loses the war against you. She has at most five thousand at Kings Landing, she can perhaps raise a few thousand more, but not many are willing to release their reserves. I wouldn’t either, I would do what Walder Frey would’ve, wait to the end and join the fray at the last moment, declaring for the winner.”

“And who are you declaring for, Ser Jaime?” Daenerys asked.

“Truly, no one,” Jaime said, his tone soften, “I cannot care anymore. But I see you can win this, and I hope you will be better at being Queen. I wish you good luck, your grace. I can’t fight for you, I won’t fight against you. There you have it.” He turned toward Reed who nodded reassuringly.

Daenerys took a deep breath, her eyes settling on Jon. “I want to speak to Jon alone.”

They turned toward her surprised.

“This is Howland’s chamber,” Jon began, but Reed raised his hand, nodding.

“I wanted to do the rounds, Quagg, Ser Jaime if you would join me. It may take me the good part of an hour to return, if that is enough.”

“Thank you, Lord Reed,” Daenerys’ smile was kind, and Reed nodded before he led the group out of the room.

“Do you think they will turn on Cersei?” She asked after the door closed.

“Reed thinks so,” Jon said, dumping himself into the other chair by the fire. His gaze settled on the flames. “I don’t know them, but if there is a way to avoid fighting them, to turn them to our side, then it is worth a try. You have an issue with that.”

She sighed. “I spent the day listening to why I should not trust you, Jon,” she explained, “Why you had to leave without a word. If I am your Queen you ought to share, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t swear you fealty, Dany,” Jon chuckled, “But I tell you of it if you want. I went because Howland told me my uncle was nearing the marshlands, and he can’t come near, not with the men in position to hunt down any dead men who gets near. He is one of them, almost, except that he’s not turned, he’s not ruled by HIM. But he is dead all the same. I went to meet with my dead uncle. I assume Reed arranged it.”

“Why would he arrange it?” Jon looked up at her to see genuine interest on her face, and kindness, softness that he did not see often, and never when others were around.

“They wanted to talk some sense into me,” he explained just as softly, “To remind me what being this ‘prince that was promised’ means. That I must kill the Night King. They told me to be who I was born to be, and stop fighting it, along these lines. That I must kill him.”

“You knew this all along, Jon,” she smiled, “You knew that none else would step up to do it.”

“No one else could,” Jon said, “It is the blood. Your blood and the Stark blood combined, as much as I understand, that is what makes me able to kill him, somehow. But it is not easy on me, Dany…” His voice trailed off.

She stood and knelt in front of her, taking his hands into hers. “Nothing is ever easy. Being who we are is not easy, perhaps it never will be. But perhaps, if we win this, if we take what is ours, we will find that peace. Can you believe that?”

“What is ours…” he repeated her words, “I gave that to you. I meant it.”

“I know you did,” She looked down as his hand took hers, “I believe you. But if I could, I would have you by my side. I meant to speak to you about this many times, and you always turn it down, you are always cold, but do you remember the Waterfall, Jon?”

He smiled. “How could I forget?”

“I remember, too,” she said, pausing for a moment to take in his words, how they made her feel, to remind herself that she chose to wait before, “We will defeat the dead. And we will figure this out, do I have your word?”

“You already had my word,” Jon whispered.

“Not for this,” she said, “Give me your word.”

“You have it,” Jon chuckled, “By the gods, woman you have it, there’s no need to begin to pester me for it.”

“Then I can only say that I agree with your dead uncle, Jon,” Dany stood, her expression much lighter than before. “Be who you were born to be, kill him. Get this damned company on OUR side. We share a side, do we not?”

“We do,” he said as he stood, mainly to see her from closer. “You changed so sudden.”

“You spoke honestly,” she said, “You told me where you were and why.”

“I gave you my word, don’t you trust me still?”

“I do,” she smiled apologetically, “But you left me no choice but to listen to every reason under the sun and the stars to why I should not.”

“Some of them are perhaps valid,” he said softly, “There was a great deal of speaking about my giving up my birthright, of the what could’ve been. There always is. And I did tell them what I told you, I gave you my word. I would never go against you for it.”

“You told them this?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Aye, I did.”

“And what did they say,” she asked.

“Reed said he accepts whatever I do. But he reminded me that I am no longer his liege. Neither are you. He owes fealty to Sansa, and his responsibility lies with his own people.”

“That is the same as what he’s told me,” she whispered, “I asked him to come to Kings Landing with us.”

“He would never.”

“No, he would never,” she said.

“Anything else while we have our honest hour?” He asked, rather relived.

“There was no raven was there,” she asked playfully, and Jon chuckled.

“No there was not,” he admitted, “And I apologise for it was my idea. I don’t want you to suspect Ser Jaime for I am certain he is not in support of his sister. He meant what he told you, he will not fight you. I am sure of it.”

“How can you be so sure, Jon, when…”

“Reed offered him to return to Greywater Watch and he accepted,” Jon interrupted, and Dany sighed with a smile. “He doesn’t want to fight in that war, Dany. Imagine if someone made you chose between one evil brother, and those who you grew to respect while fighting besides them. He doesn’t want to fight us for her.”

“Perhaps he did change,” she said, gazing into the fire. “Ser Jorah was once spying on me and is now as devote as any man could be. He’s changed too, perhaps Jaime Lannister changed too. He killed my father to save innocent people, and he got shunned for it by the same people, I understand that. He stayed with us when he was no longer bound too, I know that too. Perhaps you are right, and for now I will trust your judgement of him.”

“Thank you, Dany,” Jon whispered, honestly, “And thank you for not being angry with me for the lie.”

“You are a good judge of character,” she smiled, “I would’ve blamed him.”

“And, if I may add,” Jon began, ignoring the compliment, “Ser Jorah is deeply in love with you.”

“Yes, he is. And I cannot love him back. Not the way he loves me. I don’t feel the same for him. He knows this Jon, he accepted it. And if I may add something, too…” she looked around, “We are standing next two chairs and there on the table I believe is a flask of wine.”

Jon looked around laughing aloud, before he moved to swiftly pour wine, and handed her a cup, keeping one to himself. She was already seated. He sat back and for a while, they sat in silence, enjoying the wine.

“I am sure this is made of berries,” Dany remarked, “I keep getting surprised by Lord Reed and his home. How does it stay so green?”

“Magic by the Children of the Forest. I asked the same today, Reed said that the Children tried to separate the lands here, but their magic only held like this. It keeps winter at bay, like warming the earth or something similar. It also keeps my uncle alive as much as it does.”

More silence followed, her mind wandering away at their earlier conversation. Finally, they were on the same page once more. His voice broke through the maze of her thoughts.

“When we took back Winterfell, Sansa and I often sat by the fire like this,” he said. “We sat, and I drank, and she did her sewing.”

“She does sewing?” Dany was surprised.

“Aye, the Lady Catelyn taught her. Tried to teach Arya too, you can imagine how that went. But Sansa enjoys it. She makes her dresses. She made my shirts. She made one with red Targaryen dragons on it.”

“That surprises me,” Dany said, “I am sorry I didn’t mean to… you know.”

“She isn’t as bad as you think. I told her the same of you, and I tell you the same of her. She is good. She does her duty to the North, you have to see that.” Jon sighed. “I don’t want to get caught between you two. Reed is of the firm belief that it’s inevitable, and I don’t want you two to turn on each other. You are both my blood, both dear to me. You need to learn to live with each other, for the sake of my sanity.”

“Well, I don’t mean to disturb her kingdom,” she said, “When I am queen, she can be Queen in the North, you have my word. I will have no issue with that, for your sake.”

“Good,” Jon smiled a faint smile, “Thank you, Dany.” It wasn’t exactly how he would’ve liked her to say it perhaps, but at least she said it.

“What is your plan, Jon?”

“For when you’re queen?”

“No, about the Golden Company…” she corrected.

“Good, for I have none for when you two are queens. I’ll do what I said I’ll do and that is all to it, I suppose.” He leaned back in the chair, breathing in deeply. “We shall tell them tomorrow morning, Edric would naturally stay behind for his men, and Sansa will have no forces with us to join us. Besides, here is safer for her.”

“We’ll seek a parley with their leaders, I suppose. Perhaps Jaime Lannister could do that, though he’s of the belief that his sister is against him. Then we’ll see, whether they turn, or we fight. It’s not much of a plan.”

“I care little of elephants,” Dany said, “My Dothraki are crossing I am certain, we’ll have the numbers.”

“They have weapons with them, they can fire spears larger than the Night King used, Dany,” Jon said lowly, “The dragons will be at risk if we fight.”

“We’ll face it if we must,” she said, watching as Jon yawned. “I take it you were up all day, perhaps it is time to meet with your bed,” she laughed.

Jon stood slowly, stretching his muscles. “Perhaps you are right,” he smiled at her, “I’ll walk you back to your chamber.”

“Very gallant of you,” she laughed as she stood, “As if it was not on the way to yours.”

“That is a mere practicality,” he reasoned playfully, as he moved to open the door for her, “besides, I feel I must show those whinging advisors in your chamber that I didn’t harm a single one of those carefully braided locks of yours.”

She laughed the sweetest laugh he thought, as they stepped out of the room.

“It would be prudent to tell them little, Dany,” Jon whispered as they walked the corridor swiftly, not enjoying the cold breeze in their sleepy state. “They’ll learn tomorrow with the rest, there’s no point of lengthy explanations now.”

“No there is not, I agree,” she said as they reached her door and she turned toward him. “Besides I do need some sleep myself. Goodnight, Jon,” she leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, her lips burning against his skin he felt.

“Sleep well,” he whispered, as she rushed in and closed the door, before he turned toward the corridor to reach his own chamber and bed as fast as he could. Neither of them saw the pair of eyes, the figure that watched them in the shadow.

 

 

 


	43. The Kingsroad I.

“May I come in?” Jon didn’t wait for an answer as he stepped through the door and closed it behind himself. Only then did he look around in the chamber.

Their faces said all he needed to know. They weren’t happy with him, not that they were ever happy with him lately. Arya stood by the bed, her hand resting on the pommel of Needle. Sansa sat by the fire, and her face seemed to Jon as if she was a sculpture of ice. Perhaps if the dead state of the enemy didn’t cause them to rot, they would look like this, too. Sansa was pale, her eyes were like the surface of a frozen lake. And most importantly of all, Jon noted to himself, they were both fully dressed and ready for whatever the day would bring. They knew something was up. He was already too late.

“I would speak to Sansa, alone.” He said, straightening his back. Arya didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“I am sure you can speak to both of us.” Sansa’s voice was even colder than he anticipated.

“No, I cannot.”

“Why not?” Arya’s outburst came as expected, and Jon allowed himself to react in kind.

“Because she is the Queen in the North, and you are not,” he hissed. “Unless she intends to spend the rest of her queenship tied to your shadow, that is.”

A moment passed, Arya lost for words looking to find an appropriate retort, her eyes fixed on Sansa, but instead, Sansa merely nodded for her to leave.

“I could have a warmer welcome if I visited the Night King himself,” Jon said, trying to soften his tone once Arya closed the door behind herself.

“What were you expecting, Jon?” She didn’t move, her face showed no emotion. “Perhaps a kiss on your cheek?”

“By the gods, woman,” Jon chuckled, “this is plainly ridiculous.”

“I,” she stood slowly, “am not to be called a mere woman by you, I believe. I am still your Queen.”

“Is this how we are now?”

“You tell me, Jon,” she walked toward the window, clearly unwilling to look at him. “Perhaps your little travels in the marshes and your late-night meeting with the Dragon Queen made you forget who we were.”

“I have not forgotten who I am,” Jon hissed, “It is all everyone keeps reminding me of, who I am. It seems you all have a good idea of who I should be to you, especially you Sansa. But I am not your dragonknight who will stick to your side as if you were a damsel in distress, that is as of now very low on my priorities, I have far bigger concerns than your jealous fits. And frankly, it is you who is acting nonsense. If you would perhaps stop this childishness, I would tell you all about it.”

She turned in an instant at being called damsel in distress, her face no longer that of an ice statue. She was fuming.

“Do not,” Jon raised his hand, “Either you listen, and I speak, or I walk out the door and you learn of it like everyone else.”

She bit her lower lip, clearly struggling to keep in herself whatever she meant to say, her curiosity still stronger than her anger. Or jealousy. Whatever it was, Jon wanted to have none of it.

“I went because Reed told me I must, and it was to meet uncle Benjen, Sansa. Because he is one of them, or something similar, he is undead, so he cannot come near, not after all that our men have seen, they would not spare him. And I also went on a scout with Rhaegal, and I saw the army of the dead past Castle Cerwyn. They will attack the marshlands soon, and they have a new weapon. Ice spiders, bigger than two horses combined. But I also saw our men and they seem well prepared. Besides, I went south. Merely by mistake, but I stumbled upon something unexpected, which is why I was speaking to Daenerys last night. And not just Daenerys, but Reed and Ser Jaime as well. Because we are to leave after speaking to you all and meet the Golden Company. We’ll try to turn them, with the sword, and if not, the unsullied and the Dothraki, and the Lannister force combined will face and hopefully defeat them and their gods damned elephants, because they are marching on us to attack us in the rear while we fight the dead. I came back late at night, and I needed to prepare to leave after we all break our fasts and had a chance to speak, because an army of twenty thousand is passing Harrenhal today. That is what you are jealous of, Sansa, and if I speak truly, it is not very queenly of you.”

“Arya said she kissed you,” she whispered, “that you were very amicable.”

“Seven Hells!” Jon waived his fist in the air, as he raised his voice, “I just told you, there’s a force larger than ours marching against us and you care about one fucking kiss on my cheek?! What was I supposed to do? What is it the matter of yours?”

Sansa closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

“What am I to do while you treat with the Golden Company?” she asked coolly.

“Wait here until Edric receives the sign to leave and meet up with the men.” Jon took a step closer, to close the distance between them. “This is safer, and when the dead battled through the marshes, meet up with the Wolves and come south. I hope we’ll have dealt with the matter of the Golden Company by then, but if not, I’ll send Ghost to you. This is why I came to talk to you.”

“I don’t understand…” For the first time since he entered the room, Jon could see the real Sansa behind the mask, the woman only he knew. The woman afraid and troubled and so very fragile.

He gently placed his hands on her upper arms, it was the most he could do without doing too much but he needed to feel the real Sansa in his arms. “If you see Ghost approaching, leave. Promise me Sansa, if you see Ghost, you make to the harbour, I’ll have Davos await you there, and Arya and Sam. Sail to Dragonstone, promise me.”

“You will send Ghost… when?”

“If we fight, if we are defeated…” his voice turned to a whisper, “Promise me, Sansa. I want to be certain you survived this, so promise me you’ll do as I ask.

“What would I do on Dragonstone, Jon?” her voice betrayed the desperation she felt.

“Our people are there, and they lost their home,” Jon said with a faint smile, “Don’t let them lose their Queen. Give them hope, take them to Essos, until it is safe to return.”

“If ever.”

“If ever,” he repeated, raising her chin with his thumb, “You must promise me. Please, Sansa. Keep them safe, keep yourself safe.”

“Nowhere is safe,” she said bitterly.

“No, nowhere is safe,” he whispered, and he leaned to place a kiss on her forehead. “You must survive this,” he whispered.

“Will you ever return, Jon?” Their eyes met, and Jon wondered at the question. Not because she asked it, but because ever since he woke hours ago, unable to sleep, this was on his mind. As if she knew.

“I may not,” he said softly the only honest answer he could give. “Beyond the marshes it is the South. You have no place there, I could not keep you safe there. But my place now is there.”

“With the Dragon Queen,” she noted, more to herself, for there was no animosity in her voice this time.

“She is my blood, just like you are,” Jon tried to soothe her, but perhaps it was time to let this out in the open. “You knew this will come, we all knew. I gave my word, and with it I gave you a kingdom. To all our people, it is what we fought for… and she will honour it. I know that now, I have her word for it, she will leave the North in peace. I just ask you to do the same, for my sake.”

“I..” she began but words didn’t come, as she pressed her eyes close trying to prevent the tears breaking free, “I couldn’t not do the same. I could never defeat her and the dragons.”

“That is the queen speaking,” Jon smiled at her, “Good. Don’t sacrifice what we won for a single man. I am not worth any of it, not even your tears.”

“That is not true,” Sansa whispered, “You are worth more than any of it, more than everything…”

“No, I am not,” he took her face in his palms, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears rolling down her cheeks. “And I could have never deserved you. But I wish I did.”

She pressed her eyes close once more before her gaze pierced his own. “I will keep the peace Jon, but if she ever… if she causes you harm, I will not care. She can burn the whole of the North, but I swear she will burn with it for I will avenge you. I can’t not, I simply can’t so don’t ask me to.”

He turned to leave, before he did something he would regret, something that his own rushing heart and desperate mind urged him to albeit he knew full well that he should not. As he placed his hand on the door, his eyes caught sight of the ribbon on his left wrist.

“Sansa,” he turned from the door. She still stood where he left her, motionlessly, and he was grateful for her not crying, not making a scene out of what seemed to be their last time alone together, at least for the foreseeable future if not ever. “You haven’t given me your word.”

“I promise you,” she said lowly. “I promise that if Ghost comes, I will go to the harbour with Arya, Sam and Davos and I will sail to Dragonstone….”

Jon sighed of relief.

“And I promise you that I will keep the North safe and its people alive, wherever we end up, and that we will return home. Perhaps it wont take three hundred years this time.”

Jon smiled at that. “I hope it won’t” he said softly, “You’d grow pretty old by then.”

He watched her for a moment, before his gaze fell on his wrist again.

“Do you want it back…” he whispered, hesitantly. He didn’t want to give it back, but it felt like the right thing to do as he watched his fingers run across the ribbon, the elaborate embroidery.

“Never,” she said, “I made that to you, and I prayed it will keep you safe and bring you back. It did all of that. I hope it would keep doing all of that, but at the least… keep you safe. That’ll be enough.”

Her words gripped at Jon’s heart, as if they shattered it into a thousand pieces, and a thousand more. He nodded and rushed out the door, rushing past Edric and Ser Jaime on the corridor hoping they could not see his sulking face and his eyes brimming with tears.

*****

Breakfast was a sombre affair. It seemed to Daenerys that Edric Snow was glad to stay behind, even glad to hear of the ice spiders coming for his men. He’d rather fight ice spiders than fight the Golden Company, and Dany took that as a sign to be cautious. This man grew up in Essos, he was a sellsword after all, commanding a company far larger than Daario’s even if only half of the Golden Company. Sometimes she could see Daario in this man. Perhaps a ‘northern’ version of Daario, his recklessness and his endless optimism and self-assurance mixed with northern sobriety and caution, both of which qualities Daario gravely lacked.

And Edric Snow was not her friend. True, he came to her and thanked her for saving his life, and chattered with her more than once, albeit not once since Jon revealed who he was. His allegiance was without question to the North, and as soon as Jon didn’t bind him to Dany, he was having none of the Dragon Queen, Dany thought bitterly. Perhaps he was eager to see her fall. Perhaps he dreamed of being the man who caused her downfall. Perhaps he wished the same for Jon, now that he knew that Jon was a Targaryen. That he would do anything for the North, his home that he was kept from all his life and just now allowed to return to, of that Dany had no doubt. He’d raze the whole of Westeros to the ground if that was what it took to keep the North independent, she thought. For the North, and for its Queen.

Sansa Stark seemed made of ice, even more so this morning. Her eyes were empty, her face pale except the circles under her sky-blue eyes, and Dany knew that she cried. Which meant that nothing that was being said now was news to her, for Jon spoke to her before breakfast. Of course he did. Sansa stark enjoyed sewing. Perhaps she enjoyed embroidery just as well, and now Dany was certain, the ribbon on Jon’s wrist was her favour.

It never occurred to Dany before, in all honesty. Yes, she felt jealous of her, tall and slender with long crimson hair and pale cheeks, a true beauty, not that Dany was not. She knew the worth of her own looks, and she recognised Sansa’s. That day Jon and Edric reached Winterfell and she watched Sansa Stark hold Jon in the courtyard, she felt sheer jealousy. But she thought nothing more of it than the result of her own confused feelings. Suddenly it all came together, as they all sat around Lord Reed’s table once more, albeit more sombre and soberer than the last time, and they played no games but the game of thrones as Dany saw it, she finally put it all together about Sansa Stark, she thought.

She was wed to Tyrion against her will, and she was wed to Ramsay Bolton. Daenerys knew that her own marriage to Drogo was nothing compared to the Bolton bastard, but Sansa Stark escaped with the help of Theon. And she found the way to Castle Black, to Jon. She was a survivor and she went to the only relative she knew she had. Jon took her in, took up her cause, led an army for her and fought for her home. She brought the Vale to that army. She allowed Jon to be named King for that victory. She loved Jon. It was so clear, so obvious now. And not only that, but she knew who Jon was, perhaps all along she knew that Jon was not her brother, for she made the ribbon with dragons on it. Dany never saw the whole ribbon, it was always tied to Jon’s wrist, but she saw dragons on it. Sansa Stark accepted Jon’s identity long before Dany even learned of it and loved him regardless.

She must’ve known it never had a chance, surely? As Dany saw it, Jon was a Targaryen. As soon as that became known, whatever the circumstance, Sansa must’ve known that Jon will have to step down. He will no longer belong, at to be fair, it was clear who will ‘inherit’ his crown, that it’ll fall on her. Would the North allow its Queen to marry a Targaryen? Dany doubted it very much. Even less so now that she was here, and Jon was bound to her by his word. For a moment, her heart went out for Sansa Stark, for having to watch this unfold, having to listen as Jon swore himself to her trading himself for northern independence. For knowing well that it spelled the end of any hopes she could’ve had for Jon will leave the North with Dany. She shook her head to chase the thought away.

Dany wondered what Jon thought of this. He wore Sansa’s ribbon since they left for the Wall, Dany knew – she saw him more than once staring at it, touching it on that march, and she saw it even more times on his wrist ever since. He kissed her while that ribbon was on his wrist. He discussed her marriage proposal with her. For a moment Dany wondered if Jon thought her a fool for it, considering the ribbon. But she knew better. The Jon she spoke to last night was not taking her for a fool and was set to leave with her. He treated her as Sansa’s equal, Dany knew. Albeit that didn’t sit well with her own self-worth, the knowledge that in the end, Jon was hers was soothing enough not to fume over it. She didn’t want to be equal to Sansa Stark, she wanted to be above Sansa Stark. Her and everyone else. She knew that now.

Jon was even more silent and brooding than usual. Throughout breakfast and the meeting it concluded with, throughout their swift preparation and even as they left and despite them sharing a boat this time, Jon was silent, his gaze lost in the scenery around them. Dany knew it wasn’t out of his admiration of the marshes this time. Jon was clearly troubled. She could only come up with one reason for it: Jon was troubled because he had to leave behind Sansa Stark.

Not even their goodbyes shook Jon from this state. Dany wondered if Jon heard Sansa’s words to her. Dany merely told Sansa that Jon’ll be safe and did so out of consideration not because she had to. She even feigned a smile to give it purpose. But Sansa Stark was having none of it. What were her words? “He will be safe. I can only tell you what I told him before, if you ever cause him harm I will come for you, the North will come for you. You may be able to burn the whole North, but I swear to you, if you ever cause him harm it will be the end of you.” Dany didn’t expect it, as she watched the Queen in the North turn and walk away, watched her sister shooting deadly looks towards her before she followed suit, Dany was truly left speechless wondering if there was even an answer to this. She didn’t blame Sansa, and yet she did. How dare she speak like that to her, it was this question that kept creeping into her thoughts as she watched Jon sulking in the boat. How could she even think that Dany would ever allow any harm to come to this man? No, she would never. The whole world could indeed burn, but Dany would protect this man. He was worth more than the world. He was her blood. He was her Jon, and truly, he was hers now. Not Sansa Stark’s.

*****

“The scout confirmed them at the Trident,” Jaime declared. They were sitting around a table and a map – Jaime wasn’t even surprised at that anymore – with several Unsullied and Dothraki. They somewhat unnerved him, but he found them completely oblivious to who he was. For the first day, while they awaited the remaining Dothraki forces to arrive after their own arrival at the camp, Jaime often wondered whether Jon said something or did something to keep the Lions safe. It wouldn’t have been out of character, for sure. But then he began to wonder how he, whom could be called a middle-aged man, seemed to obviously look to a man merely half his own age or little more for protection. So he stopped, considering it completely futile anyways. For now, they were here to deal with the Golden Company, and if Jaime’s own words didn’t convince the Dragon Queen that he was no threat, if the numbers of his force didn’t convince her, surely Jon Snow could neither.

Besides, Jon Snow seemed to have found a new reason to brood about. He was awfully quiet, keeping to himself, it seemed to Jaime that only Reed could shake him from his catatonic state for a while, for as the day passed, and especially as this day began, Reed seemed to spend more and more time talking to Jon, quietly, discreetly. Jaime wondered what they were conversing about. Daenerys didn’t seem to mind, she seemed rather content in fact. Jaime associated that to the fact that the Queen was back with her own forces, her own people, and to be honest she seemed out of place and somewhat lost whenever they weren’t around her. But Jaime also knew of another reason, thanks to Edric Snow. Daenerys must’ve liked their sudden departure from the North, for one reason only. There were no Starks. No northerners, none to lay claim on her new-found nephew. And he was sworn to her. She had reason to be content, for she had now Jon separated from the North. All she needed now is keeping it this way.

As he sat down, Jaime’s eyes fell on the horn on Jon’s belt. He asked it back from Edric, apparently there were hundreds of direwolves around them now. Jon blew the horn a few times since their arrival, and wolves howled, the last time they howled so close that it sent shiver down Jaime’s spine. He wondered what the purpose of the direwolves was. He knew nothing about them, except that they were fearsome beasts and that Edric’s horn not only commanded his company but also the direwolves. Jon Snow had a direwolf, albeit it was long gone from his side. Perhaps it was with the others. Jaime didn’t look forward to seeing the direwolves.

“Here,” Jon pointed on the map, his pointing finger falling on the spot where the Green Fork and the first mountains of the Vale were closest to the Kingsroad.

“Yes, there are some hills there,” Reed said. These two must’ve already come up with a plan, Jaime realised.

“What’s the plan then?” Daenerys must’ve realised too, Jaime thought, as he watched the Queen sit back in her chair.

“We will erect the tent on the road,” Reed began to explain, “Your Grace and Ser Jaime will stay behind the hill. My guard will remain atop the hill. We’ll treat with them.”

“You want me to stay behind while you treat with them,” Daenerys sounded suspicious to Jaime.

“Yes, your grace, for we want them to think that there is no force behind us. And I believe they already turned you down.”

Jaime’s eyes widened as he looked at Daenerys.

“Not me,” she corrected Reed calmly, “They turned down my brother Viserys. They saw him for the fool he was, I’ve no doubt.”

“Still, there’s no soul in Essos who haven’t heard of the Dragon Queen,” Reed countered, “And this company was contracted to end you. It is best you stay behind until our signal.”

“Signal for what, battle?” Jaime didn’t see the plan in this, but perhaps that was the key to it.

“Perhaps,” Jon sighed, “Signal to show your strength. I want your men to be spread out with the Dothraki and Unsullied, and I want both your forces to line up on the hill, halfway up. That way, you’ll seem even more than you have, for it’ll look like the army continues beyond the hill.”

“So, they march to the tent, but we’ll wait for a signal,” Dany remarked. She really was no military mastermind, Jaime thought.

“They’ll surely have scouts,” he explained, “I would send scouts. The scouts would return reporting a tent flying a… some kind of banner. I would ride out to see, with a smaller force, leaving my army at the ready.”

“That is what I expect,” Jon nodded. “Except I’ll send my own messenger to them scouts if we catch them, or the small force riding forth, and I’ll seek a parley with their leaders.”

“It won’t work unless you grab their attention,” Jaime remarked.

“Oh, I will grab their attention,” Jon stood, and grabbed a piece of cloth from his saddle bag hanging on the back of his chair. He laid it out on the map.

Jaime was in awe. It was a banner. All black, except for the crimson of three dragonheads in a continuous circle facing right, circling a white direwolf with crimson eyes facing left, the dragon’s wing protectively in front of the wolf that was reaching out its front claws ready to attack. Jon’s banner. It was a clear declaration. Jaime chuckled at his next thought, best to keep to himself. When it was time to place the crown, which of the four heads will he place it on?

“This is beautiful,” Daenerys’ words spoke of the same awe that Jaime felt.

“Told you, Sansa likes sewing,” Jon said, the bitterness in his voice not unnoticed by Jaime. “She’s done this a very long time ago. It was a banter at me really, when only she and I knew. I don’t even know why she kept it, why she brought it with her. Perhaps the same reason why she brought this all along sewed into her skirt.”

He pulled a small leather-clad book from his pocket and placed it on the banner.

“This WILL grab their attention,” Jaime agreed with a grin.

“We cannot have you sit in a tent with Reed undefended,” Dany said, “Lovely banner, but a piece of cloth can’t protect you.”

“I won’t be undefended,” Jon’s eyes fell on Daenerys. “Rhaegal will be beside me. Beside the tent. If you agree, of course. Should it come to that, he can carry Reed and myself to safety behind your lines.”

Daenerys nodded without a pause.

“If all agrees…” Jon began to fold his banner as he spoke, “I suggest we make our move. We must be there and ready before they do, and they are close.”

Jaime stood, merely nodding toward Daenerys as he turned to take his leave. He got startled at the entrance by the smith.

“Gendry, is it?” he asked.

“Aye, it is, Ser,” the smith grinned, “I came to ask the… ask Jon if he could spare a little time for me in my shop.”

“For what?” Jaime heard Reed’s voice behind him as he held the tent’s flap open.

“Queen’s orders, my lord,” Gendry declared amidst his grin, and Jaime followed his eyes, settled on the banner in Jon’s hand, now neatly folded into a small bun. “Queen Sansa’s.”

Jon seemed surprised, which made Jaime amused. He held the flap open as Jon rushed out, banner still in hand, following the smith, and as Jaime looked back, he found that the other two was just as surprised, Reed sharing his own amusement. Queen Daenerys clearly did not.

*****

“I know nothing of this business of the Queen’s orders,” Jon said as they rushed through the camp. “Where have you been anyways, Gendry? I’ve not seen you since… the White Knife, really.”

“The Queen asked if I wanted to stay in the marshes or go forth and set up shop. I found there may be more worth of me repairing things, you know, armour, arrows. We’ve still got some dragonglass, so I found it better to come south and work.”

“That is commendable of you,” Jon smiled warmly at the smith. “You know that Sansa is not your queen, right? You’re of the south. You’re a Baratheon, even if not trueborn.”

“I know that,” Gendry declared, “I’ve not followed her orders as my queen, but for what her orders were. I’ve done as she asked and as the men rumble that we go south to fight, the time is as good as it’ll ever be to give you what she ordered.”

“She ordered something for me?” Jon was stunned. They reached the small tent that was the smithy, on the edge of the Lannister camp. Jon’s eyes settled on the mannequin covered in a black cape, his experienced eyes swiftly recognising Sansa’s needlework as he noted the neat double-stitching on the edges. Jon’s lips turned into a wide grin, “Indulge me.”

“Oh, it is not much, really,” Gendry said somewhat apologetically, “You see the Queen showed me that,” he nodded towards the cloth in Jon’s hand, “and told me, you aren’t one for a full plate armour, it is not the northern way. I saw that for myself, so I figured this would suit you while it would hopefully be good enough for the Queen, she was rather elaborate.”

He finally pulled the cape off the mannequin, and Jon’s jaw fell.

Where to start? He wondered as he stepped close and touched the quilted and carefully studded leather. Gods, Sansa must’ve spent a lot of time with this…

“The leathers were given by the Queen…” Gendry began.

“She made them herself,” Jon whispered, her eyes itching from the tears that wanted to break to the fore, “I recognise her work, I would recognise it in anything.”

His gaze fell on the metals. Except they weren’t solely metals. A cuirass and pauldrons, breastplate or plackart to be exact, complete with faulds. The direwolf launching from the embrace of the three headed dragon on the chest, on the pauldrons. And they weren’t solely metals for Gendry did something to the steel, as if countless black crystals were worked into it, except the banner. The banner shone a deep black.

“What…” Jon began, his fingertips running across the sigil on the plackart.

“Dragonglass,” Gendry grinned. “Melted with the steel. I tested it before I made this, it is strong. Stronger than any steel I know, except the Valyrian.”

“And the sigil?”

“It is the same, I tinted the steel,” Gendry explained, “I did not dare put glass on your chest.”

“How much dragonglass have you wasted on this?” Jon laughed, albeit he should’ve felt angry at the waste.

“Not enough,” Gendry declared. “The Queen told me you want to fight HIM. If I could, I would cover you in the glass. But I didn’t have enough, I had to set aside the good part for weapons. I collected the leftovers, chippings, and melted them into the steel.”

“Good thinking,” Jon said, as he walked around the mannequin, “As always. You keep surprising me, Gendry. This is fine work… to hells, it is the best I’ve seen for I never seen anything like it!”

“I truly hoped it will be to your liking,” Gendry said as he stepped back, “and that I had your measurements right. These are part, too,” He pointed at the table behind, where two pauldrons were neatly placed, next to a pair of leather boots, except it seemed to Jon that Gendry worked the sabatons and greaves into the leather of the boots. And next to that were more leathers, a new sword belt, with a dagger to it, that Jon swiftly unsheathed. Fine dragonglass dagger, not the crude stuff they were all armed when numbers mattered more than looks, this was polished.

“Careful with that,” Gendry said as Jon ran his finger across the blade, “It is sharp, sharper than you would expect. The Queen also gave the cape, though I am sure you saw that as well. I didn’t know she made them herself. It is fine work, finer than most leathers I worked with.”

“Shall I try it on…” Jon was amazed, lost for words, not knowing how to proceed. He realised just now that he never owned an armour before.

“Yes, if you would,” Gendry’s grin was fixed on his face, Jon could see the young smith was pleased with his reaction. He skilfully helped Jon into the whole lot.

It was lighter, much lighter than he expected. “Does the glass lighten its weight? I tried a Packard before, it was too heavy for my liking.”

“Yes, I found that this is much lighter, in truth it was easier to work with, too.” Gendry stepped back to see. “I admit, it is one of my best works. One of the two.”

“What was the other?”

“A bull helmet,” Gendry said nonchalantly as he walked around Jon, before he began to fix the cape on his back.

“May I see it? I admit I am beginning to admire your workmanship, Gendry,” Jon said laughing.

“Your sister Arya saw it,” Gendry said lowly, “I lost it. At Harrenhal, when we were set upon. In truth, Arya Stark saved my life, she told our captors the boy holding my helmet was me. He was dead, so I live now.”

“They were after you,” Jon began to put it together aloud, “I take it that is because you are king Robert’s.”

“That is it,” Gendry agreed. “How does it feel? Move around, try it.”

Jon took a few steps, before he draw his sword, began to swing it, took a few moves, attacked the mannequin at which point Gendry began to laugh aloud, so he stopped.

“Truthfully, how ridiculous do I look in this?” he asked.

“Truthfully,” Gendry’s face turned serious, “You look formidable. I was merely laughing at how you seemed to enjoy it, slicing my only mannequin to pieces. But I would not want to be the one facing you on a battlefield. You in all this black and your sigil and just all of it… it is fearsome. It is dreadful.”

“Good,” Jon declared, sheathing his sword, “Now get it off me, would you? And keep it safe, I’ll have need of it sooner than you think. And you…”

Gendry stopped, “Me?”

“Aye, you,” Jon said, “You gave me an armour, and I can’t even get it on. You seem to be good with it, and I need a squire.”

“Are you a knight?”

“I am not,” Jon laughed, “But if I want this on me again, I need you to be my squire, Gendry.”

Gendry continued silently, and the pieces were off Jon in no time, the leather coat taken off by himself. He was lacing up his overcoat when Gendry spoke again.

“I’ve not known a man better than you, you would honour me to have me as your squire,” the smith said lowly, respectfully.

“But?” It seemed to Jon that there was more forthcoming, “My uncle used to say, everything before but is horseshit and it seems to me there is a ‘but’.”

“There is not,” Gendry grinned once more. “I will be your squire. I was merely pondering how now I have to make something suitable for myself, since now I am your squire.”

“Well you better get on with it then,” Jon laughed aloud, “For you’ll put this on me again sooner than you think.”

He turned to leave the tent but looked back from the entrance. “Thank you, Gendry. Truly, thank you for such a gift. I could never…”

“It is nothing, Jon,” Gendry smiled, “I was glad to do it for you. It is the Queen to thank, it was her idea. I wish it was mine though, I should’ve thought of it and make you one long ago. But it was her idea.”

“Well, perhaps one day I’ll have the chance to thank her,” Jon whispered before he turned and left the tent.

 

 


	44. The Kingsroad II.

“Jon, wait!”

Jon turned toward the voice, grinning widely.

“Ser Davos, back yet again,” The old knight caught up with him quickly.

“Yes, yet again,” he said, his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “And I prepared as you asked. Ser Jorah seemed rather suspicious about it though, I may add.”

“I care not for what Ser Jorah thinks,” Jon noted firmly. “I was king, and I shipped my people onto that gods damned rock of an island, they need to have a way forward and they need to have their Queen if this turns sour. Daenerys is not their Queen.”

Davos nodded. Jon may not have been king for a long while now, it seemed like a lifetime has passed since the day they both sailed to Dragonstone, when Jon revealed to him who he was. Yet it seemed to him that after such a long time fighting dead men just as much as fighting who he was, Jon was still of the same mind as when he was king, and perhaps even came to realise that who he became was not to his disadvantage. Jon seemed firmer, more confident since his sudden disappearance from Greywater Watch. He seemed resolute, albeit also much more brooding. Davos knew the reason well enough, he didn’t need to ask. He only wondered whether Jon knew the reason too, whether it was conscious heartbreak, or he’s not reached the end of that path yet.

“I could not let you leave without the gift,” Davos said then, returning to his reason why to call after Jon.

“My gift?” Jon didn’t understand, “Gendry gave it to me, Sansa’s foresight to have it made…”

“Oh no, not that gift,” Davos interrupted, “the crate, Jon.”

Jon took a moment to get to the meaning of the reference.

“We still have that?” He was surprised, stunned even. “You dragged one of them all along our escape? How? And why did you endanger us with it…”

“I did not,” Davos said, “Jon, I sent it forth when you left for the wall. I thought if you reached the southern border perhaps you’ll have need for it. I sent it to Reed’s folk, then Reed sent it forth with the Lannisters. Tho I doubt they knew what they had.”

“Reed never told me,” Jon pondered aloud.

“No, I suppose he forgot about it like you did,” Davos smiled apologetically, “In truth, I forgot about it too. I only remembered while I was helping Ser Jorah with the landing, and I hoped I won’t be too late to remind you of it. Perhaps it could be of help now.”

“It would be of help now,” Jon smiled, “And you my friend, you proved me again how I could not do this without you. Thank you.”

“What shall I do with it then,” Davos asked.

“Send it forth with Reed’s men,” Jon’s mind began its usual race to establish how this fitted into his plans. “I’ll have it in the tent. And Ser Davos…” his eyes settled on the man, speaking of goodbye, of heartache, of love. “This may be the last time we see each other, Davos. Take care of my people. Take care of Sansa for me.”

“You’ll return,” Davos said with a reassuring smile, “You always do. But until you return, I’ll do my best to keep them safe. And sane.”

“I ask no more than that, my friend,” Jon gave the old night one last hug quickly. “Keep her safe for me,” he whispered, “Goodbye Davos, and good fortune.” He released Davos and walked away.

*****

“They’re in position,” Reed sat back at the table. It was only the two of them in the tent, which was only half set, its front was open, the panels rolled up and tied neatly to its structure, so that they could see the road ahead.

Jon merely nodded. There was nothing to do but wait now. They did see the scouting force, Reed sent two of his men forth with Jon’s message to parley. He could feel Rhaegal’s presence near. He decided to keep the dragon in the sky and out of sight for now, just as he did with the 32 thousand strong force behind him. Part of him enjoyed this, if he was fair to himself enough to admit.

“Before the war began, we did these kinds of meetings,” he said to Reed then, “like the visit to White Harbor. I find they’re more to my liking then the endless scheming about.”

“Aye, you have a plan, you execute the plan,” Reed agreed, “Like a soldier. You adjust the plan as events unfold. You’re good at that, Jon. Say what you will, you are good at these things, like a leader should be.”

“I didn’t know how much more I enjoyed this part,” Jon admitted, “now that I have comparison, it is much better than being the subject to circumstances. I rather be in control of them.”

Reed nodded, and they waited in silence, Jon pondering about it all. They didn’t really have much to talk about. His eyes took in the tent, twelve chairs in a circle in front of the table he sat at, in front of the entrance of the tent. A crate in the middle, fair distance, but close, too close but there was nothing to it. He had to be swift, for he’d rather have the twelve chairs in his constant view then at safe distance. He cared little for their safety, to speak the truth, he cared more to scare them, turn them or kill them right here. He didn’t tell Reed, but he would attempt. If this went sour, he’d probably have Rhaegal burn them all. The idea amused him, more than he cared to admit. Yes, part of him wanted to burn them all, even if they were willing to turn. They came to Westeros, they marched against the North, against his home, in his gravest time of need. Part of him found that unforgivable. Yet he knew, he had to work with what he had, what he could have. His sober mind reminded him to be grounded. He needed these forces. If he could have them… He could end this war. He’d march to the God’s Eye once Edric joined their forces, and he would end it for good.

He already had what seemed to be the first part of his plan. The Lannisters played a key role in it, and he was glad once more that Jaime Lannister was on his side. He wasn’t stupid, he saw how close Jaime got to Edric. It troubled him for Edric himself became a mystery to him, yet he knew – it was he, Jon, not Edric who turned Jaime Lannister. The fact that the Golden Lion looked up to him the way he did filled Jon with pride, every time he caught a sign of it. Finally, he allowed himself to enjoy it as his own achievement. He did this. He planned this war the way it unfolded, he led their forces in every fight. He spent a good time thinking about it, he discussed it with Reed more than once since they left the marshes. He was the leader. He must’ve been good at it so far, with him in command the Night King lost what, eighty percent of his force? His strength was in his numbers. Edric and the Wolves will further reduce those numbers. Jon cared little for ice spiders and bears and shadowcats, and if he was truthful to himself, he stopped caring for every single casualty on his side just as well. This was war, casualty was impossible to prevent. Only the end mattered.

The end was like this. He needed the Golden Company to turn, but truly, even if they didn’t he’d fight a pitched battle at the God’s Eye. With the company, his plan was already formed. It wasn’t even his own plan, to be honest, for Jon was not one who didn’t learn from his own mistakes. No, this plan was Ramsay Bolton’s. There’s a lesson in every defeat, and Jon was almost defeated at Winterfell. Jon actually had been defeated at Winterfell. Sansa and the Vale won that battle, planned thus or not. It mattered little. Jon learned the lesson, and he was keen to put it to good use.

They didn’t need to wait long.

About twenty riders approached. At the sight of the tent, they halted. Jon and Reed exchanged a glance, before they turned their gaze back toward the group. Only twelve rode forward, the rest, and their banners remained. Jon studied the banner – a bunch of skulls hanging on a pike.

The group halted once more near the tent and dismounted. Jon took them in one by one. They seemed to look all the same to him, golden armour. Funny breeches, perhaps to allow movement but to him they looked like clowns in them, it looked like they attached two sacks to their waists and three of them each could’ve fitted to one set of pants. Jon chuckled.

“Essosi fashion is lost on me,” he remarked to Reed as he stood, and Reed followed example.

A blond haired, long faced tall man stepped forward a few steps while the rest took seats. ‘You look like your own horse tucked into a pair of grainsacks’, Jon remarked to himself, causing him to smile widely.

“I remember you,” the man said smugly, “You rode that dragon. Waved at us on the road.” He turned to Reed. “And I remember you, little Westerosi.”

“Harry Strickland,” Reed spoke without any reaction or sign of fear, “This here is Jon Targaryen, you stand before the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms. I suggest you show respect. Take your seat and listen.”

“Targaryen?” Strickland scuffed. “I merely know of him as Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, and a usurper. There is no claim in that.”

“Aye, many know me by the name I was raised with,” Jon said, waiving Reed to sit. His gaze followed Reed’s for a moment, identifying a far more important member in Strickland’s group. “You see, Harry Strickland, there aren’t many Targaryens in this land. My kin were slaughtered, my brother and sister had their heads smashed in. I would not be here had I been called Targaryen these past twenty-odd years, for I’ve not had a father to protect me as a babe when it all happened, I merely had my maternal uncle to do that and he did his best as he could. My father was slain at the Trident.”

His eyes fell on the man once more, long red beard, clean shaven head, wrinkled eyes that narrowed at hearing his last sentence.

“You, there,” Jon called to him, “Jon Connington, former lord of Griffin’s Roost. You were exiled by the Mad King, and he was my grandfather. My father was your friend I believe, lord Connington. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“You don’t look like him,” Connington declared.

“No, I look like a Stark through and through,” Jon gave the man a wide smile, “Thankfully so, for I doubt I’d be here had I inherited my father’s silver hair, but the Gods saw it fit to bless me with Stark looks. My mother was Lyanna Stark, lord Connington. I am sure you know of their union, don’t you – their elope started the war that made you lose your home. I meant to thank you for your service to my father.”

“I know nothing of my service to your father, boy,” Connington didn’t believe it the least bit, it was clear.

Reed nonchalantly pulled the little book from the pocket in his coat, his one hand fiddling with the pages before he found what he was looking for and began to reed aloud. Jon hadn’t read the diary still, he only hoped that there was enough in it to aid them now. Thank the gods for his father being so keen to put his inner thoughts to parchment, what he heard exceeded his wildest expectations. Reed was right, the diary was enough to prove Jon’s identity – the diary was indeed his inheritance. After a few sentences, it was clear whom the entry that Reed chose to read was about. It expressed a deep sadness over Jon Connington’s fate, over the inevitability of it due to a king and father’s madness, and the loss of a true friend. It went into detail of Connington’s letter received, how he’s arrived in Bravos, how he pondered on his next steps and his decision to seek out the Golden Company, the closest to a chance to aid the Targaryen cause. Rhaegar wrote it himself – “Connington writes that they are the best chance to aid my cause, and he means to join them. To make them see.”

“That is enough,” Connington’s voice was considerably less confident now.

“Wait, it does get better,” Reed said with his usual optimistic grin, and disregarding Connington he read further, “I hope he can make them see. For the child’s sake, for there may not be enough time for me to see Connington’s return. I never considered defeat an option, but it must be considered, and if I don’t prevail, who will take care of the child growing in Lyanna’s belly, who else but Jon Connington. I wrote to him today, urged him to come to Dorne, to take the child to safety. Raise him, tell him who he was, tell him who he is meant to become. Take him to safety before Baratheon reaches him, name him his own and raise him. Then aid him, for Connington swore to me once, he will serve to the end of his days, me and my brood, always. I pray he would be true to his word.”

Jon watched as Connington’s face softened, then turned sour.

“You claim to be that child,” Jon Connington stood as he spoke, “I do not see how.”

“You of little faith, my lord,” Jon smiled, “I do not blame you. I would lose faith just as much as you did if I spent as long as my years in this world in exile knowing I failed my liege and friend.” He turned to Reed, but Connington spoke.

“I’ve not failed him,” he protested, “Not as you say I did. I returned to Dorne. All I found were dead rotting kingsguard and bloodied linens in a tower. She was taken, and I presumed she was dead.”

“Aye, she was,” Reed spoke calmly, “Died in the birthing bed while we dealt with Ser Arthur and his company. I was there, Ned Stark was there. We came for his sister and we left with a babe. And this little treasure of a book. You see my Lord, you were merely too late – someone else already took it upon him to keep the child safe. Ned Stark did, and did so admirably if I may add. He raised a fine man, finer than Rhaegar Targaryen could’ve ever hoped him to become.”

They all waited in silence for a moment, and Jon watched Connington’s face as the old man took in his sight once more.

“This is impossible,” he murmured, seemingly to himself.

“What is my name, lord Connington,” Jon asked. He knew full well that likely there was no relation in this at all, but why not play the card when it was so neatly presented to him? “My name is Aegon Targaryen. And my name is Jon Snow. JON Snow. I was waiting for you to turn up one day, my friend, and finally, here you are.”

Connington shook his head, as if trying to unconvince himself, and Jon allowed a faint sense of triumph creep into his focused mind. They had him, he admitted to himself as Connington studied him in detail, “You are of her image, that much is true, it’s plain to see,” Connington said lowly and sighed. “Gods be good… you are him. You are Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son.”

“Or so he would want you to believe, and he is merely Ned Stark’s bastard as he always was,” Strickland spoke, “Enough of this madness. Why are we here?”

“I am glad you ask,” Jon turned toward the commander, “For I am not one for idle chatter either. You Harry Strickland are here to join my cause. That is why you were invited to this tent today, to give you the opportunity to join me.”

Strickland laughed, and most of his captains laughed with him. But not Jon Connington, now sitting once more in his seat. Jon Connington didn’t laugh at all.

“I dined once with a Targaryen,” Strickland spoke just as smugly as before, “That one at least had the looks, but he was a fool just like you are. We do not fight for Targaryens. Whomever scribbled into that diary was gravely mistaken, and for all I know it could’ve been you just yesterday. Perhaps after you saw my forces on the march and waved at me so smugly, for you planned this all. Well, your plan falls way short of being enough to turn me, or my company to your side. We are not here to fight for you, boy. We are here to end you and take your head to Queen Cersei to prove a job well done. Yours and that of the Targaryen bitch, both.”

“My Lord Connington, if I may ask you a favour,” Jon said kindly, “Just so that we can move on from this nonsense of doubt and deal with our true business here rather sooner than later. Pray you do stand and come to the table, see for your self the diary. Tell us who wrote it for you must know the handwriting, I am sure of it. You’ve seen many letters written by that hand.”

Connington jumped despite Strickland’s angry stare and rushed to the table. He tried to grab the book from Reed’s hand, but Reed wasn’t willing to completely let go of it. Connington relented immediately, merely turning pages as Reed held the book for him. His face spoke more than any words could.

“This is his handwriting,” he said, “I am sure of it.”

He turned to Strickland, “Rhaegar wrote this diary. I would recognise his writing from anyone else’s but even if not, there is proof of it.” He reached into his coat and pulled a few folded parchments from above his heart, neatly tied with a string. He untied the string, his fingers careful, and e unfolded the parchments, laid them neatly next to each other on the table. There weren’t a lot, only four of them.

“These are his letters to me after I left, until he…” His voice trailed off, his eyes settling on Jon. “I kept them. Thus I know who wrote the diary. It was written by Rhaegar, I am sure of it.”

Strickland stepped to the table and glanced at the parchments, at the open book.

“It matters little, we are under contract,” he said, “And the Golden Company would never fight for a Targaryen. You are sworn to the Company, Griff. This is behind you now.”

His words weren’t kind. He gave an order, it was clear. It occurred to Jon that the Golden Company may not be like the Wolves, that hierarchy it seemed mattered much more here. Connington swiftly collected his letters and returned to his seat, and Jon watched him as he gently folded each letter one by one on his lap, then tied them with the string before he tucked them away in his coat. Above his heart. Then he looked up, straight into Jon’s eyes, and Jon knew.

“You say you are in contract to defeat me for Cersei,” Jon stood and walked to Strickland. The man was considerably taller than him, even though Jon was not a short man himself. “I suppose you came all the way here, you may as well give me the opportunity to show you why I spent the good part of the day sitting in this tent awaiting your arrival.” He spoke looking straight into Strickland’s eyes.

“If you would step back now,” he said, motionlessly. Strickland took it a challenge, just as he expected. Jon raised an eyebrow and nodded, emphasizing his words, and finally Strickland relented. Good, while this was worth nothing, it was for a show. Strickland to give way to Jon was just as symbolic as the sword hanging neatly sheathed and covered on Jon’s belt. He turned toward the crate.

“I ask you all to stand and be at the ready to defend,” he spoke clearly, “Not because I mean to harm you. But I would not have you accidentally hurt in my presence, there’s the battlefield for that should you not change your course.”

They hummed, some chuckled, but after a moment they obliged.

Jon unlocked a side of the crate, then the other, hoping for a second that the cargo inside was as he expected it to be, after all this time locked into a crate. It was undead after all, let’s hope it didn’t rot away fully just yet. He drew his sword as he kicked off the lid.

Shriek. Jon took a moment to look around, see their faces, a moment too long, and the wight jumped at him before he was ready for the attack. He had to duck and roll, but the wight didn’t go forth toward the captains in the front. No, it wanted Jon. Jon jumped across the crate to have it between them, finally taking up his position.

He smiled a confident smile as the wight that was once Othell Yarwyck attacked him once more, he turned to side and swung his sword in the air before beheading it.

“Now, you may think, this seemed too easy, why am I wasting my time allowing tens of thousands of this marching across the length of the North and into the Neck,” he said, “and it was easy, because of the blade I held. Valyrian Steel.”

Reed stood and nodded to Jon glancing back at him, and Jon continued.

“There are way too few of these blades in Westeros and besides Valyrian Steel, only dragonglass or fire can kill wights, and neither of that can kill wight walkers I found, those that lead them,” he held up his new dragonglass dagger to emphasize his words. “There’s only one Valyrian steel sword in your company, either, I believe, you know it is rare. Except,” he turned toward Strickland with a smug grin forming in the corner of his mouth.

“Except I believe you no longer have it,” he said, his gaze falling onto Strickland’s belt. The hilt of his sword looked the part, Jon realised now, golden hilt carefully crafted, ruby shining bright.

“It is right on my belt, fear not,” Strickland protested, “I look forward to introduce it to you on the battlefield, bastard.”

Jon chuckled. “Is it on your belt, my lord Strickland?” he asked as he walked back to the table. Reed nodded to him once more as he stood and stepped aside from the table, and Jon turned back toward their visitors.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jon said, raising his sword high, turning it in the pale sunlight so the light could dance its way across the blade, highlighting the swirls in the metal only too distinctive to Valyrian steel, for all of them to see. He watched their faces, noting to himself that they saw, they narrowed their eyes to see clearer, some stepping forth a step or two to see.

He smashed the sword into the table, the bottom of the guard hitting hard on the old oak. The carved wood cover on the guard cracked to pieces and fell into a dozen of directions. He pulled his dragonglass dagger once more, and in one swift motion cut across the leather strapping on the hilt as he laid the sword on the table. Then he carefully raised the sword, now guard and hilt revealed, toward the men. They looked on in wonder and confusion, recognising the fine craftmanship.

Jon slowly untied the remaining of the straps from the top of the hilt, and finally, a bright ruby emerged. Some gasped.

“Now this is a fine show,” Strickland said.

“Fine as my sword deserves,” Jon said, “I pray you show me yours.”

“I will not play part in this circus,” Strickland declared turning from him. “You had your time, bastard. Now it is time for me to fight you and defeat you.”

“With what army, do tell,” Jon asked watching Strickland walk away, some of the captains including Connington turning with him, but his gaze lingered on Jon for a moment, knowingly. Strickland stopped at his words, and Jon continued, “Correct me if I am wrong, Harry Strickland, but your name is Strickland, not Blackfyre. The only thing named Blackfyre in truth is in my hands, and the company you lay claim to are bound to follow MY sword.”

Strickland turned back toward them. “I will have your head at the end of this, bastard. And you,” his fuming gaze fell on Reed, “You will pay, little lizard, your death won’t come by swift beheading, I promise you that.”

His face turned to a grin, “In fact, boy you are right, why fight a battle,” he declared, “I have eleven beside me, you have what? A one-armed lizard.” He turned toward his captains, “Bring me his head!”

Jon merely smiled as they draw swords and turned to him, he stepped forward and out of the tent. The winds grew, as Rhaegal dove in from the sky, shrieking, and landed beside the tent, right close enough to the stunned captains to burn them.

“One word from me,” Jon said to the frozen men, “One thought even, for I need no words, no orders to shout to bring me your heads. One thought and you’ll be burned to crisp.”

Rhaegal gave meaning to his words shrieking at the man before breathing fire into the sky, for the show. Jon laughed aloud. Rhaegal was like an extension of his mind, understood him clearly.

“One dragon, you have,” Strickland shouted, “One fucking dragon! I have twenty thousand behind me, twenty ballistae will shoot down your one fucking dragon, bastard! You want to fight ME with a dragon?!”

“No, not with a dragon,” Jon declared, “Look behind me, you fool.”

They all looked, they all watched as banners emerged, gold lions and red dragons, and men, as far as the eye could see, Unsullied and Lions marched forth in formation atop the hill, and when they stopped, Dothraki screamed to ride forth waiving their arakhs. Daenerys and Jaime Lannister rode ahead and stopped at the head of the army.

“You see, I didn’t have to rob Highgarden to pay for my army like Cersei did,” Jon declared aloud, “I merely gained allies who are in support of me at their own will. The force you see won’t fight you for greed, they will fight you for life. Either you are invaders and a hinder to my cause, or you join us. Your choice. I look forward to find out on the battlefield how you decided.”

He turned away, to Rhaegal who lowered his wing in anticipation, noting from the corner of his eye that men were riding forth with a horse for Reed, and one for him, but he had no need for a horse. He had Rhaegal. He climbed atop.

“On the morrow, at sunrise,” he shouted back at the twelve, “I shall see you here with your army and mine. Make up your minds, or I shall make it up for you then.”

Rhaegal launched and shot for the sky, circling back above the allied army of Daenerys and Ser Jaime, waiting in the air, watching as Reed rode back, as the captains departed, until they were out of sight. Then he landed behind the lines.

“Thank you, brother,” he whispered as he nudged his face into Rhaegal’s neck, “You did marvellously, thank you.”

“How did it go?” he heard Daenerys behind him.

“We have Connington,” Jon declared.

“Has he declared for you then,” Jaime dismounted as Jon walked to their group, and joined Daenerys and Grey Worm awaiting Jon.

“No, he did not declare,” Jon said, “But he believes who I am. He has letters from my father, he proved it himself that the diary was written by my father. Strickland had a copy sword made, I bet none of them ever studied the blade or the ruby. They shall have one eventful night ahead of them, I would say.”

“So, we don’t know if we have to fight,” Daenerys was disappointed clearly.

“No, we don’t know for certain,” Jon smiled at her a warm smile, a confident one, “We’ll line up on the battlefield tomorrow before the sun rises. Double the guards tonight.”

“Or better, line up now, and anticipate an attack,” Jaime said with eyebrows drawn together, “I wouldn’t trust them to wait until we said we fight, if they want to fight us.”

“Aye, true,” Jon said, “And even more so, I’d give them a reminder that we are here.” He turned to Daenerys, “Have the unsullied beat rhythm by the hour, every hour. Have the Dothraki scream their battlecry the same. Let them hear us and dread us.”

“We prepare to fight, then,” Reed said, just arriving to the group.

“Aye, we prepare to fight,” Jon grinned, “But I have a feeling we’ll be nicely surprised.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sooo looking forward to reach this point!  
> Sorry, I can't know / remember what Strickland and Connington are portrayed to be like, but since in this story their paths were so different, Connington didn't have fAegon to live for and Strickland had to deal with losing the object of his authority, I decided this is what they are like, story-Strickland and story-Griff. I like the name Griff so he'll be called that, still.  
> I hope to prove that introducing new characters so late in a story like GoT is not impossible. There's no proper story without Reed, but also none without JonCon.


	45. The Kingsroad III.

Jon watched from the side as the army lined up, closer to where the tent stood yesterday. They dismantled it not long after the meeting, and now they were up on the hill, almost surrounding the Kingsroad. There was so many of them, it almost made Jon feel like the choice of ground was foolish – a large army is not at advantage on a narrow path but at a disadvantage. At the same time, he didn’t mean to attack.

His plan was rather simple, and Jaime agreed with it. He placed the Lannisters as archers on the sides, they dug pikes into the ground. He lined up a thick line of unsullied in the front, also protected by a row of pikes. It was more like a mass of unsullied, the path was narrow, so they weren’t actually standing in a line. They were lined up in those nice formations, and they would close ranks at the ready.

If it came to fight, he wanted the Company to attack them, drive themselves into the thick lines of unsullied lances. But by the time they did that, Jon would already have rained fire on them. If their cavalry charged, they’d get caught on pikes and lances, and cause little distress. If they drove their elephants in, Jon had an even crueller weapon: wolves. He was at the side now, for he meant to make a show entrance. He was armoured, for the first time in his life he meant to ride into a proper pitched battle like some kind of king, even though he was no longer one. He toyed with the idea of him at the head of this army, only to fall because he can’t bloody fight in armour, chuckling at the irony of it. It was good that he was to do very little fighting on the ground. Daenerys wanted to ride the dragons, and Jon had to admit to himself that he was eager to fight from the air again. It was something else, being up there breathing fire on his enemy, the power it granted him. Whenever the company reached their lines and as soon as all of them were in motion, Dany and Jon would take flight. The Dothraki would circle around and attack the rear, and like Ramsay at Winterfell, Jon would have the Golden Company encircled. Then Dany and he would do what they did at White Harbor, and burn them, flying in circles while they can’t escape. It was the very same plan he meant to utilise against the Night King himself, albeit he presumed the Night King would learn the lesson from his defeat at White Harbor, but the Company could not have known of it. If it came to fight, Jon meant to test his battleplan here, today.

He waited for the Company to line up against them. And they seemed to be late. Jon didn’t think they turned around and ran albeit the idea was amusing. He yawned. No one had any sleep last night, and Jon often wondered whether he made a good decision, but the unsullied kept beating the ground in rhythm every hour, causing the Dothraki to ride around screaming and waving their arakhs. It ended in loud cheer the first few times, even the Lions joining in, for it was indeed inspiring and calling into battle. After that, they grew tired with it, and rather sleepy.

All that until they heard it. It must’ve been the fifth or sixth hour, and the Unsullied duly began ordered by Grey Worm’s horn. Then they heard the scream. “Shut the fuck up,” it said. And they all laughed, and screamed, for it was all worth it. If they got to one, they got to twenty thousand. After that, the ground beating and battle screaming was even longer, harsher every hour. But they all paid the price of not gaining any rest, and Jon wondered if it was worth it. If they had to fight today, perhaps a good rest would’ve done more good for the men.

The company took their sweet time. For a while the whole army watched their sentinels in position – it must’ve been one of them screaming last night, Jon thought – the rest of them duly hid behind the hill on the other side. Jon knew they were there. Their own scouts seemed to be far better than the Company’s for they even counted the elephants, the camp fires and the like, and one even returned to report that there’s gossip about their enemy led by Rhaegar Targaryen himself. Jon wished. It would be helpful, being his own father, not having to prove who he was. The better part of the gossip however gave him a completely different feeling: that of victory. The leaders were arguing bitterly, the scout overheard the men discussing how Strickland had been confronted by Connington, but no, it was the other way around, but the others agreed with Connington. It didn’t matter, as long as Connington came out on top, but of course the gossiping fella knew nothing of the outcome. They were gossiping about the army as well, dragons and beasts, and if they spoke about it like that, Jon thought, they must’ve feared them. They can be professionals, but no soldier ponders aloud about the enemy unless he fears it.

His gaze fell on Jaime, Daenerys and – to his utter dismay – Reed at the head of the army. Jon couldn’t persuade Reed to stay out of this. He was no swordsman. He was a crannogman, and he had no trident to fight with, only Sam’s half of a Valyrian steel sword. Jon tried to convince himself that the man survived the Trident with a sword, fought Ser Arthur Dayne with a sword. But it did little, and Jon was truly worried.

They seemed restless. Jon didn’t tell them that he’ll stay behind for he didn’t know himself until his chatter with Gendry this morning, while his new squire fitted his armor on him. Gendry asked about the wolves, which gave Jon the idea. He didn’t have more time to ponder on this now, for the earth began to shake. The unsullied immediately began to beat the ground in response. The company was finally marching forth.

They seemed dreadful as they emerged, cavalry in the middle, footsoldiers on the side. Then they stopped, and opened lines between them, where elephants came forth. Then their captains and a good portion of the cavalry stepped in line with the elephants, perhaps a bit further. Then they waited. It was Jon’s time, but he decided to make them wait a bit longer. He enjoyed this, not to mention he kept studying the cavalry but could see neither Strickland nor Connington, and that troubled him.

The unsullied kept beating the ground. Dany and Jaime kept looking around. Finally, Jon decided that if he didn’t catch the sight of Connington until now, he may as well ride in. He nodded to Gendry and blew his horn.

The wolves howled, and Jon watched as men in the company cavalry began to look around. An elephant stepped back, just as the first wolves reached the unsullied lines from the hills. They were coming from both sides, as Jon hoped. He warged Ghost last night, Reed told him to try to teach the wolf. Jon didn’t think that such a thing was possible, but it seemed that his four-legged friend did exactly what Jon wanted. The wolves ran in, hundreds of wolves, eight hundred to be correct, and stopped ahead of the army, howling. Jon nodded to Gendry once more and urged his horse forward.

Gendry followed him, holding high his new banner, as the wolves gave way, and Jon rode in to take the leading position in front of Dany and Jaime and Reed, ahead of the whole force. Gendry lined up besides Reed, Jon could see from the corner of his eye as he turned full circle before he stopped to face the Golden Company. The wolves closed rank in front of him, in attack position, growling. Gods, their growling sent shiver down on Jon’s spine even, as he watched them elephants. They were afraid, visibly afraid, some of them stepped back, and they were looking around. Good, Jon thought glancing at Ser Jaime who nodded to him with a grin.

“You took your time,” Jon heard Daenerys as she stepped forth to take the position beside him, and Jaime did the same on the other side. “The armour though,” Dany looked him up. “You look formidable, Jon. You look like a Targaryen. Like a dragon reincarnated.”

“No, not like a dragon,” Jon corrected with a smile, “The very union of the dragon and the direwolf.”

Jon looked ahead. No one moved, and Jon raised his hand, at which point the unsullied stopped in an instant. He closed his eyes, merely to reach Ghost, and the wolves settled back, albeit it took more time. Then they waited, but it seemed to Jon that nothing was forthcoming.

Finally, riders emerged. The cavalry of the company parted to give way.

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of Connington, Strickland, and a few more faces of those he met the day before. They rode in, and as they stopped Jon noticed.

“There’ll be no battle,” he declared.

“How can you know,” Jaime began but Jon waived him to silence.

“Look and see,” he explained, “Strickland is tied to his horse.”

Jon rode forward, Jaime, Daenerys, Reed and Gendry closely following, and they stopped halfway. Jon thought it is better not to ride in, let them come to him, and remain in the safe vicinity of the army. And come to him, they did.

They dismounted, and Connington pulled the rope causing Strickland to fall. Then they walked, dragging a tied-up Strickland with them. There was nine of them.

“Two are missing,” Reed said lowly, “Not all of them turned then.”

“We’ll deal with the rest, if they haven’t,” Jon said, his excitement over his victory could not be clouded by such details just now. As the small company of men came closer, Jon’s eyes met Connington’s. They stopped, and Connington pulled on the rope once more, then kicked Strickland at the feet of Jon’s horse. He threw a blade after him.

It was Strickland’s sword, except there was only a hole where the ruby should be, and the blade was broken. They wanted to be certain then, and well, the copy didn’t live up to expectation. Jon’s face remained emotionless, playing his role, as he watched Connington get down on one knee, and the others following.

“Seven hells,” he heard Jaime murmur next to him, and looked up. The whole fucking Golden Company began to get down on one knee right in front of them. These Essosi, Jon thought, they like their show-offs way too much. They seem to like kneeling, too, and Jon learned the lesson from the previous time an Essosi commander knelt in front of him and hailed him the greatest king that ever lived. This was all worthless, he thought bitterly, but as he looked to the side, to Jaime, to Daenerys, he knew that they were stunned, they believed it.

“I failed your father, Jon Targaryen,” Jon’s gaze returned to Connington as the man began to speak, his hand on his heart, “I would rather die right here, than to fail his son. The Golden Company is at your command, Jon Targaryen.”

“What about your contract,” Jaime asked, “The Company never broke a contract before.”

“Fuck that, Ser Jaime,” Connington declared, “The members of this company are exiles and descendants of exiled Westerosi. We came to Westeros for a promise to return home, and agreed to fight for it against the very blood that made the Company who they were. It wasn’t to our liking, but we agreed, Strickland agreed. But we will not fight against the sword, the company will not betray its very foundation that it’s built upon. And I will not betray Rhaegar’s son, I took a vow, to serve Rhaegar and his brood to the last of my days. I intend to keep that vow.”

“Let me guess, you ask us to grant your return to Westeros,” Jon said, “Nothing new, my friend. You aren’t the first sellsword company asking the same. What do you offer in return? Why shouldn’t we merely fight our way through yours?” Jon wasn’t having it. They marched against him, he reminded himself, they would’ve attacked him while he fought the dead, or most likely while he ran from them, and he didn’t believe sellsword oaths anymore.

“For one, Strickland himself,” Connington said, still on his knees. “And for the other, to fight beside you. To fight these dead men you battle with, and fight Cersei Lannister at your command.”

Jon felt Daenerys’ hand on his and looked at her.

“Do you trust me?” He leaned close to merely whisper the words, so only she could hear, and their eyes met for a moment. She nodded, albeit hesitantly.

“I accept your offer,” Jon declared, “But I have a condition. You see, sellsword promises mean very little to me, Lord Connington. Thus, when this show is over, you and your friends here will come to our camp and stay, and you will tell us everything you know of Cersei Lannister’s plans. And don’t take me for a fool, either of you – way too many have tried before you and failed, and none of them are here to tell the tale. I’ve beheaded the last of them right in front of your eyes yesterday, and I won’t hesitate to give you a similar fate. Rise.”

Connington rose and blew his horn. The company in front of them rose and broke formation. It seemed to Jon they were all too eager to avoid this bloodshed for they swiftly turned their frightened elephants around.

“Who leads the company now,” Jaime asked then.

“Why, I led them here,” Connington stood straight, “They chose me to lead them, there was an election after… after we proved his sword was a fake. But I am not their leader. The company follows the one who wields Blackfyre.” He turned to Jon.

“This is your army now,” he said, reaching out the horn to Jon, and Jon laughed aloud.

“Fuck these companies and their horns,” he said, but he took it, and he blew it. The men turned, and seeing who blew the horn, they began to cheer aloud, swinging swords and lances above their heads. So it was true, Jon thought. For now, at least, he was the leader of the Golden Company.

“Take this scum away,” he nodded towards Strickland, and Daenerys waived her hand. Grey Worm rushed forth with five of his men and grabbed a rather angry looking Harry Strickland from the ground, dragging him away. Jon blew Edric’s horn and the wolves began to slowly disperse.

“That horn,” Connington’s eyes narrowed, “I know that horn. The wolves… By the Gods, you have the Company of the Rose, as well.”

“Aye, I do,” Jon grinned, “What you did today was nothing that someone didn’t do before you, even the fucking kneeling and cheering. But they are not called that anymore. They are the Wolves of the North, Lord Connington, for they are home. They are just now fighting for the survival of that home.”

“I thought this could not be your whole army, for you are in the midst of a war,” Connington smiled, “I salute you, Jon Targaryen. Well played.”

Jon nodded before he turned his horse, glancing over Daenerys to follow, and rode away, leaving Jon Connington and his – or rather, Jon’s own – new captains behind to ponder on this all, before they were brought forth to face Jon once more.

“They swore allegiance to you,” Dany whispered. She rushed to Jon right as they dismounted, before Jaime or Reed, or even Gendry could reach him.

“And I gave my word to you,” Jon responded, also in a whisper, “Trust me now, you said you do. I will not turn them against you, but they can fight our battles for us. For you.”

“It is funny really,” Jaime stepped close, “You had one sellsword company of what, ten thousand? You lost that to Sansa Stark, then just as fast you gained another sellsword company of twenty thousand. I wonder if all sellswords in Essos are setting out now to join you.”

“Not all,” Daenerys smiled, “The Second Sons are not. They are in Meereen.” Jon raised an eyebrow and Dany turned to her laughing, “What? You thought you are the only Targaryen who attracts sellswords? No, Jon, I’ve done that before you did. Like you said, nothing new.”

Jon laughed with her. Finally, he allowed himself to wholly enjoy this victory, as Gendry began to release him from his ‘shackles’, his armour.

“The armour is exquisite,” Jaime said admirably. “Fine work, Gendry. I take it these were the Queen’s Orders then.”

“Aye,” Gendry nodded, “Thank you, Ser. I’ve done what I could in in the little time I had.”

“I can’t imagine what you would’ve produced then if you had all the time you wanted to,” Reed’s voice was full of appreciation just as well.

As soon as Gendry was done, they made their way to the command tent, where a dozen of unsullied duly waited at the entrance alongside the nine captains including Jon Connington.

“I remember you,” Daenerys said to Connington as she walked past him.

“And I remember you, Queen Daenerys,” Connington smiled, “You were rather pliable, just a child and shivering from fear of your brother the fool.”

“He was mad, Viserys,” Daenerys declared, “His madness earned him a golden crown.”

“A golden crown?” Connington sounded surprised.

“Yes, my Lord, a golden crown,” Dany sat in one of the large armchairs behind the table, furnished now to show order to these people. Two armchairs behind the table, two chairs at its side. It must’ve been hard to convince Ser Jaime of this, Jon thought. But then perhaps it was not. Ser Jaime cared little of this anymore, he cared about the fight against the dead and about having a place to grow old. He cared little about the game of thrones anymore. Jon took the other armchair besides Daenerys. Here they began to present Daenerys as Jon’s equal, for it had to be slowly eased into the mind of the Company leaders, Reed said, before Jon could share that he will not take the Iron Throne himself. Reed called Connington a “possible fanatic, not unlike his former self,” and thus Jon agreed. As he sat, Dany laid her hand on his, and he saw Connington’s eyes drop at their hands for a moment. Jon knew exactly the message that must’ve formed in the man’s mind.

“I would be interested to hear,” he said, “Perhaps it’d explain why he didn’t join us at the head of fifty thousand Dothraki as he promised.”

“He promised that?” Daenerys was surprised, truly, at his words, “Perhaps it is time you began to hold up your end of Jon’s bargain then and share.”

“He bargained about telling of Cersei Lannister, your grace,” Connington grinned, “But we may as well share. Illirio Mophatis, the merchant that housed you when we dined with you, he promised to us, he brokered the deal. We turned down your fool of a brother, but Illirio said, wait and he’ll prove himself worthy. He’ll gain fifty thousand Dothraki and he’ll join us, and we’ll return home. That was the deal.”

“Even more so, Illirio said you will meet up with us and turn to Westeros, but the next thing we hear is you have three tiny dragons and you’re lost in the Red Waste. No, Illirio said, you’ll come to Pentos. Next we hear is you are in the east, burning the slave cities to the ground, and you have eight thousand Unsullied at your command. So Illirio begged us to send an envoy to Volantis, you are eager to reclaim the Iron Throne he said, you’ll take us home if we fight for you. But no, alas the next we hear is Daario Naharis declared for you, and you are queen in Meereen. Frankly, at that point we told Illirio Mophatis to get lost, or we help him to it for clearly the man knew nothing of your plans.”

“I knew nothing of his plans,” Dany said bitterly as she sat back in her chair. “He promised you that my brother will join you at the head of fifty thousand Dothraki. That was the size of Drogo’s khalasar then. Illirio sold me to Drogo for that army.”

Jon squeezed Dany’s hand, rather unconsciously, and Dany glanced at him.

“This all matters very little now,” she said. “This is the past. If we look back we are lost, Lord Connington. I care little for Illirio Mophatis and his grand plans, but I tell you this. My brother was indeed a fool, a mad fool, and the very man who they sold me to crowned him duly for it, with molten gold. He demanded a crown, he got a crown.”

“Why in seven hells would the Golden Company listen to one Essosi about such matters,” Jon tried to make sense of what he’s heard, beyond his rage at what he’s learned about Dany’s past.

“He claimed to have had aid in Westeros, close to the stag king,” Connington explained, “and, if I may add, he took us by our weakness.”

“Your weakness?” Dany raised an eyebrow at that.

“Yes, Queen Daenerys, our only weakness,” Connington’s voice softened considerably as he spoke now, “for what are we? I thought a lot to put into words what we truly are, for I firmly believe, one should know what he is, for the world will truly see each of us for who we really are. We are ghosts. Revenants of lost wars and failed rebellions, nothing more, but a brotherhood of the failed and the fallen, the disgraced and the disinherited with one reason, one cause to bind together. To find our way home. That is our weakness.”

“Well, you are an eloquent man,” Daenerys nodded, “And if there is anything we understand here, it is the plight to find one’s way home.”

Connington nodded to her, and for the first time since the meeting yesterday Jon saw true feelings in his eyes, appreciation and understanding. The plan seemed to work, albeit not as Jon expected but it seemed to him, that Connington warmed to Dany regardless.

“Do you have names?” Dany asked then, “Do the others not know the common tongue, for only you speak to us, Lord Connington.”

“Of course not, I mean,” Connington became somewhat apologetic, “They would speak, but it is order, your grace. The company thrives on discipline, and only the ranking officer speaks to a client. I know, I know you are not strictly a client, and I am not the ranking officer, for Jon Targaryen wields the sword, but seeing he sits on the other side of this table and you question us… the rank falls on me to speak.”

He turned toward the men, neatly lined up, and began to introduce them. They bowed one after the other upon hearing their names, which said truly nothing to Jon. He recognised some of the names from his learnings with Master Lewin but that was all. Brendel Byrne, Humfrey Stone, Duncan Strong, Denys Strong, Lorimas Mudd, Caspor Hill, Malo Jayn, and Lymond Pease were the eight sergeants standing in front of them, joined by two more men since they left them on the field after the surrender of the company, Gorys Edoryen, paymaster and Lysono Maar, spymaster. The latter looked straight into Jon’s eyes knowingly and Jon wondered for a moment what the spymaster’s task was in a company of sellswords. If Edric had a spymaster that Jon didn’t know about.

“Cersei Lannister then,” Jon declared, glancing at Jaime, who sat back in his chair. His face was emotionless, but Jon knew, this will be hard for him. He offered Ser Jaime to stay out of this if it came to be, but Ser Jaime wanted to hear it. It seemed to Jon that Jaime wanted to know the extent of his sister-lover’s evil madness.

“The woman is mad,” Connington spoke, “But I’ve not dealt with her. It is as I said, only the ranking officer deals with the client unless it cannot be avoided. That was Strickland. But Lysono may know more.”

“Speak up, then,” Dany grew restless, Jon could hear in her words. “Spymaster, what have you learned in your trade that could interest us?”

“The woman is mad indeed,” Lysono Maar began in a broken version of the common tongue, “She keeps a woman in the black cells locked in with a rotting corpse. The corpse is her daughter’s, the woman’s. Some say she’s Dornish.”

“Ellaria,” Dany whispered, “It must be her, is she still alive?”

“That I know not for certain,” the spymaster shook his head, “I know that Queen Cersei did pay her a visit a few days prior to our leaving. After she took the kraken to her bed.” He glanced at Jaime at saying that, but Jaime didn’t flinch at all.

“She spends her time in the Red Keep, never leaves it, with only her Hand and her servants as her company. Her Hand was expelled from the Citadel.”

“Qyburn,” Jaime interrupted throwing in the name, “Saved my arm in a rather unconventional way.”

“He was expelled for his unconventional ways and experiments, Ser Jaime,” the spymaster nodded in agreement, “and it seems to me he can raise dead men himself, for I heard Gregor Clegane died in a trial by combat for your imp brother, and yet he is there, like a shadow to Queen Cersei, with skin turned blue and rotting.”

“This is nothing new,” Jaime said coldly, “If you ever asked me, I could’ve told you as much.” He spoke to Daenerys, before his eyes settled on Jon.

“She is with child,” the spymaster continued, “she hides it, but I hear she doesn’t flower, doesn’t drink. Though I heard, right before we left she took to the wine.”

“The child is mine,” Jaime added, his face still void of emotion, “Again, as you would say Jon, nothing new.”

“He promised us Dragonstone,” the spymaster said then, and the sergeants turned to him in surprise, Connington included. It was news to them, that much became immediately clear.

“None are supposed to know, save for Strickland, for he was promised lordship of Dragonstone,” the spymaster explained, “and the company would not have accepted that, so he kept it to himself. But I am the spymaster. And I know, Strickland was not happy to march North and leave Dragonstone to the Kraken.”

“What?!” Jon stood in an instant.

“Strickland and Queen Cersei had an argument about it,” the spymaster continued as Dany squeezed Jon’s hand, “she said, Strickland is not the captain of the seven seas, or something similar. And that Strickland has to put the elephants to use, they were expensive and surely, they cannot swim to Dragonstone. She said it loud and clear, she will send the Kraken to Dragonstone.”

“The Kraken,” Dany’s voice was firm as she stood to stand beside Jon, her hand holding his firmly, “Are you referring to Euron Greyjoy?”

“Yes, your grace,” the spymaster sounded rather apologetic, “But it was not done when we left. The Iron Fleet was at harbour. So I know not if it happened indeed. But I know this – the Hand gave the Kraken the same ballistae he gave us, to fix on his ships. To shoot down the dragons, Dornish style.”

“I want you all to leave,” Jon hissed, “You too, Connington. Grey Worm, bring Strickland in here.”

They all were ushered out, duly, and soon an unsullied returned whispering into Dany’s ear as they all sat in silence awaiting Strickland to be brought, or for Jon to calm.

“They are kept under guard, Jon, until you or I order otherwise,” Dany whispered in his ear and Jon nodded.

Grey Worm returned with Harry Strickland. The man was smug, even in chains his face betrayed an endless sense of self-worth. As if it was merely the world conspiring against him and he had nothing to do with this all.

“I will be very brief, Harry Strickland,” Jon began as he stood, walked around the table, “I told you I am not one for idle chatter. So, you tell me what I want to hear,” Jon grabbed the man by the bundle of rope that tied his arms together and pressed the bundle against the table between Jaime and Daenerys, “And you tell me quickly, or I shall introduce you to the Bolton way of conversation.”

Reed jumped from his seat, “Jon,” he called out. Jon merely glanced at him, his eyes on fire with fury, and Reed stepped back stunned, as they all watched Jon drawing his dragonglass dagger.

“The thing about dragonglass,” he spoke, “it seems when prepared properly it is way sharper than any steel, even Valyrian steel. I have the very best smith at my command.”

Strickland’s eyes were fixed on the dagger, as it slowly neared his thumb on his left hand. He hissed, doing all he could not to scream as Jon slowly carved around his nail, before he twisted the dagger to twitch the nail off the finger.

“That was merely to introduce you two to each other,” Jon hissed, “And now, we converse, and you tell me everything about Dragonstone.”

Strickland’s eyes grew wild for a moment as his gaze reached Jon’s own, then turned to Daenerys and returned to Jon.

Then he burst out laughing. It was only a split second, Dany didn’t even finish standing up in anticipation seeing as anger took over Jon’s face, before the dagger in Jon’s hand slammed into the oak table, pinning Harry Strickland’s left hand with it, and this time, he screamed. He screamed because Jon slowly pulled the dagger, cutting his hand in half at a miserable pace.

“Fine!” he screamed, “I tell you! Just stop it, stop it!”

Jon stopped in motion but didn’t pull the dagger.

“Your people are there,” Strickland ushered the words, “She will send Euron Greyjoy if she hadn’t already. She said the Imp must be there and she wants the Imp, and she said she’ll make you pay for the North, that it is hers she’ll teach you the lesson! She promised me Dragonstone and I argued it must be the Company who took it, but she wanted Greyjoy to do it, she said Greyjoy was far more ruthless, that is why he suited the job, and she’ll order the rape and murder of every northern woman and child until you beg on your knees for their life, and she’ll make you watch as they rape your sister, she called her the bitch, Sansa her name was, and when done she’ll give you the faith she gave to the Sands, that is all! That is all I know!”

Jon finally pulled the dagger, and swiftly released Strickland who fell back on his knees as Jon turned around, taking a few steps forward.

“Jon,” Reed’s voice was soothing as he raised his one hand toward Jon, “Jon, see reason. Don’t,” But Jon didn’t see reason. His breathing quickened, his eyes grew cloudier with rage, as it overtook him. His hand found the ruby on the pommel by his side. “Jon, don’t, please…” Reed was begging him.

“I am sorry, Howland,” he said calmly.

Then he turned as he drew his sword and in one swift motion, beheaded Harry Strickland, watching as the horsefaced head rolled away on the ground.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and I duly apologise to anyone who expected a nice battle, and got a version of "mad-Jon" flickering through instead. Got a bit carried away I suppose... they awoke the dragon! 
> 
> Deadcount (cos why not)  
> \- Harry Strickland - No RIP deserved by story-Strickland so there's none.


	46. The Kingsroad IV.

“May I join you?”

Jon looked back behind his back to see Daenerys standing a good three meters away from him. He wondered how long she must’ve stood there, likely watching him as he sat on a single rock facing the South of the Kingsroad, boiling in his anger cooking up various elaborate and gruesome ways to take his revenge. He merely nodded and she sat down beside him as he shuffled a little to the side to give room.

“I am sorry you had to see that,” he said after they just sat for a while in silence.

“I am not,” her voice was calm, soothing, the kind of tone she seemed to only reserve for him, for when they were alone, “Not really.”

“I am not proud of it,” Jon admitted duly, for he was not. “I know not what came upon me, Dany, but I don’t regret it. I can’t find that in me to regret that I murdered a man.”

“Have you?” She sounded to Jon as if she meant the question, or so he wanted to believe, but the explanation was forthcoming he knew. “He was a vile greedy man who betrayed his own sworn brothers. He would’ve led them against us, and he would’ve claimed the ancestral home that is rightfully yours and mine. And I am sure he had his own orders of rape and murder. No Jon, you may not have held a trial, but you served justice regardless.”

“Besides,” she smiled, “You are a dragon. A part of me is glad to have seen that I am not alone with such temper and urge to serve justice as I see fit.”

“Is this how you felt when you burned the Tarlys?” Jon asked, only to realise how his words may have come across. “I don’t mean to insult…”

“You are not insulting,” she interrupted, calmly, as she took his hand in hers. “And yes, I suppose it was something similar. They defied me, ME. After I almost annihilated them, they dared to defy me and that angered me. Tarly’s voice angered me, he insulted me. He insulted Tyrion, tho I suppose from his perspective his words were true. I can see that now. Tyrion counselled against it and I felt it was necessary, but if I am honest, I felt I needed it. I wanted them all to see what it means to awake the dragon.”

Jon chuckled at that. “You are a dragon, not me,” he murmured, “I think I am just plain mad. I am going mad. All this shit, war with the dead, war with Cersei, you and Sansa can’t see eye to eye for the life of me and now all these fucking sellswords are here, too. The first one promised a dagger to my throat in the end, this one is said to be a fanatic to have me crowned. Every fucking person wants something, it’s just… Perhaps my coin landed on the mad side, if it applies to half-Targaryens as well for I can’t take this shit much longer and keep my sanity.”

“Reed’s plan seemed to work, though,” she smiled a supportive smile, “And you’re not mad. It is rather tedious, all this. I don’t blame you for letting off some steam on that scum, no one does.”

“Reed will,” Jon sighed, “He almost begged me not to. No, he did beg me not to. But aye, his plan seems to work, at least.”

“Does that mean he accepts your decision, then?”

“Who knows?” Jon laughed aloud, although he couldn’t tell why. “I can’t tell anymore. But he seemed keen to get the point across, all this arrangement of seating and who’s to speak and your hand on mine… he was rather elaborate, wasn’t he?”

“I think he loves you, truly” she said, staring into the distance, “I wonder sometimes what love is. I think love is when one accepts the other, with all their failures and their bad decisions, and just loves them regardless. Just accepting who they are, not wanting to change them to who one perceives they should be. So I think he loves you, perhaps like a son.”

“He lost a son,” Jon remembered Reed’s rare moment watching Dany piling his pine trees on the Kingsroad, when he spoke of Jojen Reed.

“He told me of him.”

“That is good, I suppose,” Jon smiled, for the first time looking at her since she sat down beside him. “It’s odd really, is it not? Reed lost a son and is now by my side, and Davos lost a son too, and he’s by my side. And I never had a father, a true father for my uncle was rather… distant. So, I presume now I have two fathers. They sure treat me like that sometimes.”

“I never had a father…”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to…” Jon felt the urge to apologise, his words must’ve hurt.

“No, it is all right,” her smile was wide, honest, “I doubt the Mad King would’ve been an exceptional father. What I meant to say was, I felt the same about Barristan Selmy. He sometimes spoke to me like that, ‘your grace’ this and ‘your grace’ that, always courteous, but it was there. He made me feel like he treats me like that. And he didn’t even lose a son. Or a daughter. I suppose it is normal.”

“As normal as sitting on a rock staring at the road, while we are at war on two fronts,” Jon looked ahead, as if a whole army was supposed to show the next moment.

“What will we do about Dragonstone?”

“That is what I was thinking of, what we should do about it.” Jon sighed a heavy sigh. “They must’ve left Kings Landing over a week ago, perhaps a fortnight. But the Dothraki only left Dragonstone a mere three days ago. If there was an attack they would’ve reported it, but we can’t go and see, not with giant spear throwing machines on those ships. And I can’t let it happen. If I even think that I planned to send Sansa there, right into that trap, and what they said she would’ve done to her…”

Dany opened her mouth to speak, to ask about Sansa Stark and her love for Jon, and find out, but caught herself. It was not the right moment, plainly.

“Actually,” Jon stood and stretched his muscles, “I know what we should do about it. Davos was there with Ser Jorah and they are back in the camp, awaiting Edric and Sansa. We should ask them if they’ve seen anything suspicious.”

“Jorah would’ve told me,” she shook her head as she stood, “He’s extremely detailed that way, he reports every little detail amiss. He only told me that Tyrion and Varys were seemingly bored.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I suppose being stuck on an island with the population of the North and far from any power is boring for those who thrive on scheming for power.”

“Tyrion does no such thing,” Dany retorted, albeit her eyes remained playful.

“Oh, but Varys does,” Jon smiled. “Isn’t that all he does? I doubt he could survive without it for much longer. I am surprised he made it this far, sitting on Dragonstone and doing nothing.”

Jon’s words made both of them think as they walked back. Dany wondered if they really were doing nothing, so far removed from every event unfolding, or more like, what they were doing exactly, how they were coping. Varys was used to comfort, she could tell. Tyrion could adjust, she knew that as well, but boredom drove him to drink, and Dany would rather not have him drink his brain into a sponge. Jon’s thoughts were far darker. If they were doing ‘nothing’, he thought. Varys, the Spider and Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, as he was known though Jon would’ve never called him that – they were in charge of Kings Landing when Stannis attacked, and Davos’ son died burned alive by wildfire. Then they went to Essos, and offered their services to Daenerys, for what? Loyalty

“Someone had to advise Cersei,” he said then, his voice frail, hesitant.

“Of what?”

“That your forces are set to leave Dragonstone,” he explained. “Someone had to advise her, someone who knew before the Dothraki sailed, for the Company left Kings Landing before they left Dragonstone. And they knew.”

Dany stopped mid-step. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying…”

“I am not trying to besmirch them,” Jon protested, as if he needed to. “But someone had to advise Cersei, for even a Mad Queen would not send an armada to invade an Island occupied by an expecting army. And to have the Dothraki sail, you sent raven to Dragonstone.”

“If anyone advised Cersei,” she pointed out, “it could be any of those who were at that council, Jon, the same way it could be Tyrion or Varys. A raven could fly from Castle Cerwyn just as it could from Dragonstone.”

Jon merely nodded. He didn’t know for certain and so he didn’t want to argue, he didn’t want to defend his own people from the same accusation, but the unsettling thought lingered in his mind. He hoped that it lingered in Dany’s thoughts just as well.

*****

“It is strange to see you besides a Targaryen, Ser Jaime,” Jon Connington rose from the stone he sat on, as Jaime approached.

“I suppose it is,” Jaime said nonchalantly. “Two Targaryens, and at least they are sane. Or, their insanity combined is still far outmatched by my sister’s, I would say.”

“It is true, then,” Connington allowed a slight grin to himself, “Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, turned against his own kin to aid the kin of the king he’s slain.”

“If you put it like that,” Jaime pointed out, “It does sound rather strange, I agree. But I’ve not come to discuss it, it is what it is, and I believe you’ve seen one of my thousands of reasons when you met with Jon yesterday. Isn’t that why you turned?”

“I had no turning to do,” Connington lowered his voice as he spoke, “I was always loyal to Rhaegar. There was no one to give that loyalty to, not until yesterday. If I only knew…”

“Don’t blame yourself, Connington,” Jaime put his one hand on the man’s shoulder, “Nobody knew except him and Reed. Perhaps Sansa Stark knew, but the Dragon Queen surely didn’t. It was quite the scene between them when he revealed it, in front of the whole Lords Council of the North.”

“They share the bed, don’t they,” Connington chuckled at the memory of Dany’s hand taking Jon’s. “Targaryens, this is one thing I never understood about them. Rhaegar was different.”

“I know not what they do when I’m not around, I am not their wet-nurse.” Jaime’s hand fell off Connington’s shoulder. He should’ve known he’ll have to lie if he came here, he reminded himself, to keep up Reed’s plan. “I came to give you a proper greeting, see how you fare. It’s been a long time, Connington.”

“Aye, it’s been a long time,” Connington’s smile was honest, appreciative, if somewhat bitter. “I’ve aged, I lost my hair and what little of it grows on my head is closer to hers in colour than my own beard. You’ve changed too, Ser Jaime. Gone are the blond locks and the smug face… and the swordarm, too. How do you fight the dead without your swordarm, Ser?”

“I use my left arm now,” Jaime explained, feeling he was being measured up, “It’s been a long while anyways, I don’t even miss it anymore. Besides, Jon is rather perhaps the best military commander I’ve seen. So far there’s been fairly little real fighting for me to do.”

Connington laughed aloud at that, before his eyes narrowed. “She seems to wear the breeches here,” he said lowly. “Rhaegar’s son just sat at the table saying nothing. Almost nothing.”

“She’s certainly not… ‘pliable’, you called it. But no, if you stayed you’d know that is not the case,” Jaime grinned. “It was he who beheaded Strickland. I came to tell you that, as well.”

“Beheaded…” Connington pondered on the word, “Like a death sentence.”

“Aye, you could say,” Jaime turned toward the man, “For he deserved it, I am sure. But there was no trial. Anger got the better of him, though it was a sight to behold. First he peeled off his fingernails and cut his hand in half, as foreplay. Then he beheaded him.”

“Is he mad?!” Connington froze.

“Not in the slightest,” Jaime gave him a wide smile, “But you’re quite unlucky, Connington. You joined the fray a teeny bit too late to see what he was like.” Jaime paused for a moment, enjoying the satisfaction at what he was about to say. It felt right, for once, to play the game.

“See when I came around, he was King in the North. A fucking good one at that. What did Edric Snow say? He fell on his knees and hailed Jon the greatest king that ever was. He’s good, Connington, he’s fucking good at it, he’s cunning and he’s ruthless. He’s not the fair kind-hearted king that I joined, war got to him since. Now he’s just fair and cunning and ruthless. He can’t be played, he’ll see it through. I came to tell you, for I believe you’re missing two of your sergeants. Don’t think it went unnoticed, don’t think anything goes unnoticed here. Reed sees all, and Jon sees and what he does not see, Reed will. If any of you means to fuck around, I advise against it. I came to tell you that. If you mean to serve him, do it true, else soon it’ll be your head rolling over on the floor.”

*****

“You’re leaving for Dragonstone.” Reed stood by the entrance of Jon’s tent, startling him as he swiftly packed his belongings.

“Aye, leaving,” Jon turned, “But not for Dragonstone. Not yet, anyways.” He stood straight in front of Reed then, as he continued. “What I did there, I cannot apologise for it. It was right.”

“I don’t expect you to apologise for it, Jon,” Reed’s smile was honest as he spoke, “You weren’t the only one raging at what we heard. But you need to tame it. We don’t need a rumour that you’re mad.”

“I am not mad,” Jon chuckled, “At least not yet. I hope not.”

“I know you’re not,” Reed stepped in and sat on Jon’s camp bed, motioning to Jon to sit beside him.

“I came to tell you that Ser Jaime and I are working on the matter of two missing sergeants,” he explained calmly, “and to ask what your plan is.”

“I’ve no plan,” Jon sighed, “I will consult Davos, he’s been at the harbour throughout the Dothraki landing. I don’t think there was an attack, not just yet. I’ll consult Davos, then I will come up with a plan. But there is something that bothers me, Howland.”

There was no response, so Jon continued, seeing the expectant look on Reed’s face.

“The Dothraki left Dragonstone a mere three days ago. The Company left Kings Landing at least three times earlier than that. And yet, they knew that Dragonstone is vulnerable, Cersei knew.”

“You mean someone betrayed you,” Reed’s declaration sounded as if he read from a tedious book or merely declared the colour of the sky. “I wondered if you saw it, for I thought of the same. It does not fit.”

“No, it does not,” Jon nodded, “And I mean to find out who it is. I care not if its one of ours, or one of hers. I’ve been betrayed once, Howland, I got a knife in the heart for it. I won’t be betrayed again. I know you are watching, you and your raven so tell me, who do you suspect.”

“It’s not one of yours,” Reed said quite confidently, “I don’t mean to defend them for they are brewing, but not one of them would aid Cersei Lannister, you should know that. They want you to stake your claim, and they want Daenerys to… well, disappear, really, but not the way you would think. They’d be content if she merely sailed back to whence she came from. There’s no plan, though, so it’s mainly just childish discontent brewing.”

“Ad Sansa knows of this,” Jon declared.

“She does not,” Reed corrected him immediately, “At least, Edric claims thus. He’s the main instigator.”

“Fucking Edric Snow?” Jon didn’t believe it.

“Aye, Edric Snow,” Reed laughed at Jon’s disbelief, “The man is rather… fickle, I would say.”

“Aye, he is,” Jon laughed with Reed, “One day he vows to slice my throat, the next day he seeks Sam’s support. Sam’s! You must be right, childish discontent brewing. I am glad if the traitor is not mine. I have a task for Ser Jaime and you. And this fucking Company.”

Reed gave Jon a knowing grin, both of them realising in the moment Jon spoke his last words that the Company was more of a burden than an aid to him.

“I would have you march the Company south,” Jon began to explain, his mood lighter as he spoke, “I would rather keep sellsword from sellsword, if you know what I mean. And, you’ll have time to burn the dead in our path. Cemeteries, crypts… you know what to do. But there’s something else. I want them to be cheerful, as if they won the greatest victory, I want them to boast that they have me. I want it to reach Cersei Lannister.”

Reed raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t question. There was something in Jon’s eyes, something cunning, sneaky and dangerous, that wasn’t there before. But Reed didn’t mind it, if anything, he welcomed this new Jon. ‘The man has been born,’ he thought to himself. It seemed to him that Jon finally stepped up the game and into the role he was meant to play. ‘Let the game begin.’

He stood and nodded to Jon. “We’ll have it done,” before he hesitantly added, “Good fortune, Jon. Make sure you return,” before he left the tent.

*****

“There was nothing, your grace,” Ser Jorah fiddled uncomfortably in his chair. They sat in this tent for the best part of the hour, answering the same questions over and over, if worded differently. “Truly, there was nothing. Lord Varys looks to be dying of boredom and speaks even less than usual, if anything. Lord Tyrion was quite involved in the embarkation and a great help to me. He sought after your welfare in detail but had not asked me anything that would make me suspect him. He’s not even asked after the others, or how our progress is. I presumed that he grew content with waiting and looking after the refugees until your return, after all those were your orders to him.”

Dany leaned back in her chair, somewhat relieved. The traitor can’t be hers. The traitor must be one of Jon’s.

Jon sat silently. They didn’t get much smarter by coming here. The only thing he learned was that the Wolves had not shown yet. There were only the few thousand that Jon left behind, mainly northmen and wildlings who in the end had to join the southern camp when they’ve set their traps for there were too many of them and the Wolves took precedence, mainly due to their experience. The camp seemed to have settled into easy rest and recuperation, the men visibly enjoying their current post: In the North the Wolves held the marshes, in the South, they could be certain now that the allied army blocked the path to them. They felt safe with reason. Jon wondered how the Wolves fared. He’s been told there were no signs of battle, no smoke rising beyond the marshes just yet. The dead have not attacked the marshes.

Davos was adamant that none of his people were any more suspicious than normal, their discontent obvious but they would never betray him. They had a detailed report from Davos as well, and so they learned – or in Dany’s case, were reminded – that Yara Greyjoy’s fleet was at harbour. Theon duly joined his sister as he said he would, when they left Greywater Watch. They helped ferry the Dothraki even. By now, at the end of the hour Jon didn’t know what to think. They didn’t find anything that could lead them to the traitor, but by now he was certain: there was a traitor amongst them. Someone betrayed their movements to Cersei, someone who was close enough to be privy to their plans before those plans unfolded. Someone who had their trust. He stood with a sigh.

“What will you do?” Davos asked.

“There is only one thing to do,” Jon declared. “We wait for nightfall, and we pay Dragonstone a visit.”

“Why wait,” Dany stood as she asked.

“Ballistae,” Jon explained, “They can’t shoot at us if they can’t see us. And if they’re there… well, we may as well burn them to hell before they see us.”

*****

Her eyes flung open as the cold breeze reached her cheeks. As she exhaled, she froze mid-motion, her lungs holding on, her heart racing up to her throat: she could see her breath in the air right in front of her.

Sansa listened for a moment. There was no movement in the room. She glanced aside to see Arya’s bed empty, as usual – Arya preferred to spend the nights on the corridors, watching, listening. She was out there, now. There was no sound, no sign of movement.

She slowly reached under the pillow, looking for the pommel, for a second thanking Jon to instruct her to keep Longclaw under the pillow. “If you’re ever in danger, don’t jump,” she recalled Jon’s words, “just have Longclaw at the ready, easy reach for your swordarm under the pillow.” Her fingers locked on the handle.

She took a slow, deep breath, her eyes scanning the room once more. No one was near her, that much was clear. She watched her breath dissipate in the air, her lungs holding on to their load that followed it. One more heartbeat. No, not yet. Left, or right? She chose right, there’s more room between the wall and her bed, then between the two beds. Straight path to the door. “When I leave, always be at the ready,” she heard Jon’s words, “Always measure before you take your next step,” she remembered another lesson. I remember, she told herself. “Always be at the ready.” Sansa took that seriously. She slept fully clothed for days now, she carried Longclaw with her even to the privy. I am ready. One more heartbeat.

She jumped.

She screamed.

IT screamed.

 


	47. Greywater Watch.

 

She held Longclaw with both hands, looking at the wight that once was Quagg, still not believing. She tried to get past, but it was quick, way too quick. It held a trident in its hand. Sansa didn’t think that wights could differentiate or choose the weapon they preferred when they were still among the living.

She screamed once more, but still there were no sounds, as if the whole of Greywater Watch was dead. Gods, the whole of Greywater Watch, her mind kept racing. Focus.

The door flung open in what seemed to be a lifetime. But it was not help that came. Her guard Tomm joined Quagg, and the other beside him. Mikken, he used to be one of her favorites. Not anymore, little bird, she thought bitterly. They moved toward her now, slowly, as if they knew she can’t escape. There was no escape. Think, she screamed at herself in her mind, think!

Fire, she thought, just as one of them launched. She ducked the way Jon tried to teach her so many times, for a split-second congratulating herself at the proper execution of the move as she rolled on the ground close to the fireplace and landed on her knees, Longclaw behind her back. It surely wasn’t executed with Jon’s eloquence, she lost balance at the landing, it took her a moment to get it just right, but as she did she realised the power in the position. She glanced aside. The fire was burning, almost dead but not just yet. She’ll have to reach for a log. She’ll have to reach into the fire.

They launched so she had no time to think it through. She screamed as the flames reached her left hand buried deep in the hearth looking for a grip, and when it found one, her skin melted onto the burning log in an instant as she turned and stood, cutting down Tomm for he was the closest, pressing the log into the chest of wight Quagg and ducking once more. She found herself at the window, wight Mikken swiftly closing in. Her hand still stuck to the log, burning into her flesh, the pain tearing her eyes. Wight Quagg’s body took to burn well, and the wooden floor took to it even better. She stood there watching as the room alit behind wight Mikken, now startled at the trap. Sansa laughed, aloud, breathing heavy, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes and her lungs swiftly giving in to the smoke of the damp wood structure underneath the floor as the fire spread.

She turned once more and swung Longclaw and wight Mikken lost its head finally. She stood straight, taking it in.

The window glass broke, and she jumped into defence position, but instead, she heard her name. Arya. The door swung once more, she could see them rushing in now, now that they knew someone was living, breathing here still. They climbed over Arya’s bed, and Sansa didn’t think. She turned and jumped out the window. Rather be dead broken on the rocks under the water, then be killed by them. End up like THEM.

The water was cold, soothing her burning hand and the log finally fell, releasing her flesh. She screamed, just as a pair of hands grabbed her. Her right hand, her swordarm as Jon used to call it, still clung to Longclaw, and instinct wanted to swing it toward where the grip came from, but she heard Arya once more.

“Sansa, it’s me,” she hushed, “Be silent…”

But the arms were not Arya’s. Sansa looked up to see Edric Snow, just as he lifted her out of the water and into one of them small boats they arrived in. “Silence, your grace,” he whispered, and she nodded, lips pressed tightly together for she wanted to scream. Her hip hurt, her ankle hurt, her hand hurt. Her heart hurt. She looked up at the keep and could not believe her eyes.

This was their sanctuary. The only place impenetrable, they thought. Quagg was so certain, he told Sansa just this past supper, no dead or living will ever reach Greywater Watch if the crannogmen didn’t want it to. What happened?!

She looked around, they all did. There were two crannogmen with them, there was no one else.

“Where’s Brienne?!” she hissed.

“There’s a boat ahead of us,” Edric whispered, gripping her closer to him, wrapping her in his cloak. She began to shiver. “Sam Tarly and Ser Brienne are there, I’ve seen Brienne kicking Tarly into the boat. I’ve not seen anyone else.” Suddenly they heard a splash and turned into the direction. The keep rapidly took to fire, and Sansa was almost convinced that it was merely a log falling off the structure, when a hand grabbed the boat. It wasn’t white, Sansa exhaled.

Edd Tollett’s head emerged from the water.

“What the fuck…” he began, but they all shushed him to silence. It was to no avail.

As the keep burned, they began to line up at the waterfront, their eyes the same shining blue.

“Glover,” Sansa murmured, and Edric nodded. Lord Glover, or what was once Lord Glover stood nearby, watching them through his ice blue eyes, his face cut in half.

“I don’t see Clegane,” Arya whispered. They scanned the row of wights once more, familiar faces, crannogmen who they supped with just this past evening, who protected them these past days. Sandor Clegane was not among them. Sansa’s eyes found Cerwyn. Her shocked mind wanted to laugh, who else to fall but Glover and Cerwyn, the two burdens Jon and she carried, dragged along all this way. Quagg. Quagg’s loss hurt. He didn’t deserve this. Mikken didn’t deserve this either. But they weren’t standing in the line, Sansa reminded herself. No, you ended their misery.

She sat up and turned, and could see ahead the other boat. A crannogman, Brienne and Sam Tarly sat in it, their faces mirrored the shock on the faces of those Sansa shared her boat with. She looked up at the young man who stood at the end of the boat. Thick line of tears rolled down his face. Sansa was glad she didn’t have to watch Winterfell burn to the ground in the end, that she was far away.

The boat began to move, as the crying boy grabbed the stick attached at the end and began to navigate them. Sansa wondered where they could be heading to. It seemed to her, if the dead could find and penetrate Greywater Watch, then there was truly nowhere to go for the living. There was no escape.

*****

Jaime and Connington entered the tent in a rush, only to find Reed at the table, his face hung into his one hand.

“Lord Reed,” Jaime called out, but Reed didn’t move.

“Lord Reed?” There was no response.

“Perhaps he’s warging,” Jaime turned to Connington, “These northmen, they do crazy things. Their mind leaves their bodies and enter birds and they fly. They scout and the like, I’ve seen it atop the wall, Reed took a bunch of ravens to scout and…”

“I am here,” Reed’s voice was frail, so very frail that it stopped Jaime mid-sentence. He watched as the small old man stood, looking weaker than ever before, fingers wiping his eyes, yet tears kept rolling down his cheeks.

“The dead have reached Greywater Watch,” he said, “My home... It’s gone.”

*****

Jon hissed as the needle on the belt pierced his skin. Saddlebags weren’t designed to be attached to a man’s back, he thought bitterly. The idea was genius though, why didn’t men discover this before was beyond him. In any case, he surely could not saddle Rhaegal with the thing, so he had to somehow secure it on himself, and this is wat he was toying with now.

As he finally managed to lock the clasp, he looked up to see the approaching Daenerys. She had a saddlebag on her back as well, most likely without the problems Jon faced. Jon wished Gendry was here – what’s a squire for if not for such business.

“What is that?” Dany asked, looking beyond him then and Jon turned.

“Smoke,” he said calmly. The attack began he thought, but… wait.

“It’s not on the road,” he murmured, more to himself. His eyes began to scan the north, and as he did he grew more certain. It was too far east. It was deep in the marshlands.

The dragons landed besides them just then. “That is not our fire,” Jon shouted to Dany, as he ran to Rhaegal and climbed atop. “That’s Greywater Watch!”

Dany followed, but Jon and Rhaegal were high in the sky by the time she caught up with Drogon. Jon pointed at the road and Dany understood. They separated, Dany taking to the road, diving in steep before Drogon spitted fire on the pine trees she stacked up for the purpose. She looked back to see that the men understood. She didn’t see the attack.

It was so sudden, they hit a wall of ice almost literally, Drogon bouncing back with a shriek. There was almost no light except the fire below, she couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t see the birds amidst the snowstorm that seemed to encircle her. Drogon shot to the sky, to escape, but they clung to his wings, chipping away at his skin, and he shrieked, louder and louder. It occurred to Dany, she may not get out of this, they may not get out of this. But then the clouds cleared, they were high up in the sky. The birds fell off. Drogon’s wings flapped at an uneven pace, he was injured. Dany could do no more on this front, she thought, it was time to find Jon. She could only hope the men will be able to execute the plan, for she was certain, the attack just began.

She saw the smoke rising through the clouds and made for it, diving carefully. Just as she cleared the hazy dark clouds, she found herself just above the thickest of the marshes. It was so green, so beautiful when she last saw it. Now it burned, and in the middle, she could see a small island, surrounded by burning boats. Greywater Watch was no more.

Her heart twisted in her chest. This was a place where she felt home like nowhere before she thought. All those beautiful tapestries. She wondered why she thought of tapestries as Drogon circled around, looking for Rhaegal and Jon. She thought of them because Howland Reed’s wife made them, she reasoned, his wife whom he lost and now he lost what she’s left behind. Not just that. Now he lost everything that his ancestors left behind. He lost home.

As she turned she could see them, just rising, both dragon and rider fixated at something on the ground before. Drogon turned to make full circle, and then she saw. They were lined up there, wights, just by the riverbank, and in the water, two tiny boats were trying to escape. Trying, for they were being followed on the ground, more wights. Dany watched as one of them sank into the mud, only for another to step on it and rush forth. Then Rhaegal breathed fire on the row of wights on the island, the floating patch of land where Greywater Watch once stood, and the centuries old willows lit up.

She decided to fly ahead, see where the boats could dock, as if there was a chance… she wondered if it was safer for them to remain on the water. The dead don’t swim - not that we know of, Ser Davos said. They killed thousands of them on the lake because they don’t swim, they burn. What she saw was not what she hoped to see.

Logs across the water. The storm thickened, the water level rose, she could almost watch as it rose higher and higher, as it turned angrier, reaching the logs that were now crossing it where the stone posts used to be. The harshest point of the river. She saw the wights standing by.

Jon said they don’t think. They must think, for they must’ve laid the logs. They must’ve come up with the trap. A Walker stepped on the log, nonchalantly walking to the middle and raising a spear. Drogon rose higher by instinct, but it was clear the spear was not meant for them, not this time.

Behind Dany, two tiny boats battled the angry current, and she could see their passengers. Sam Tarly, Brienne of Tarth. Edd Tollett, Edric Snow, and the Stark sisters, all held on to dear life in the boats smashed about by the water, into the stones. The spear flew by, and they screamed. It didn’t find target, but the boy in the second boat, the navigator fell into the water losing his balance. Soon his body emerged. He must’ve hit a stone, blood was turning the water crmson around his floating body. She turned back to see the other crannogman in the boat take to the position and then she thought. It’s better to burn then to become one of them, at the least, if this didn’t work out.

Drogon turned and took position just as the boats reached where Dany was, and spit fire on the logs. Then again, and then again, Dany hoping they’ll crack and fall, that they’ll give way. In that moment, a line of fire emerged to the side – Rhaegal flew by above them, burning the wights on the riverbank.

A boat got caught up on a burning log.

They had to land, Dany thought. There was no way the refugees will escape this if they don’t land and pick them up. Just in that moment, Drogon’s claw reached for the burning boat. Dany looked forward, watching Jon as he was watching the makeshift operation, for she could not see what was happening below them. Jon nodded to her, pointing up, so she urged Drogon to rise. As she looked down she could see the burning boat. It was empty. They were in Drogon’s claws, she knew.

She wondered if she should take them to camp or return, but wights lined the riverbank once more, and the second boat was nearing where the first one burned. It had five people in it, there was no way Rhaegal could lift them out in his claws. She looked around, but she couldn’t see far enough, couldn’t see any place she’d deem safe. As she looked down, a wight jumped onto the boat, just as Rhaegal breathed fire on the wights awaiting its arrival.

She watched as Arya Stark moved, somewhat in awe if she admitted to herself. Arya swiftly dealt with the threat, while Edric Snow held Sansa Stark in his cloak, and Edd Tollet stood at the ready. Two more jumped, as the boat got stuck in between a stonepost and the burning logs, too close for comfort to the other burning boat. Rhaegal dove in breathing fire on the other side of the riverbank, and Dany decided to step in. She could swear she hear Brienne of Tarth screaming, “Lower,” as she reached the boat, hoping she was in position. She must’ve been for a wight climbed onto a wing, and Drogon instinctively rose high as he shook it off. She could hear screams below, just as Rhaegal dove in, straight for the boat, just as Edd Tollett cut down a wight and… he was attacked from behind, skewered on a sword. Sansa Stark reached up and pushed Tollett’s body into the pile of burning logs along with his attacker. Then she could see no more for Rhaegal settled above the boat.

Drogon retreated to distance for Dany to see, and she now watched a scene similar to what could’ve happened when she picked up her cargo. Edric Snow was trying to help Sansa Stark into the claw, who for some reason could not hold on. They tried and tried again, while Arya and the crannogman with them was cutting down any wight that came near, and they came, in steady line across the logs and stones, as fast as they could. Finally, Edric gave up, and in an ironic move flung Sansa over his shoulder, before he climbed on. Holding on with one hand, he reached his other for Arya, and Sansa did the same. A wight was pulling down Arya Stark.

Dany looked up at Jon, shaking her head, not yet, before she looked back at Rhaegal’s claws. Two wights were pulling down on Arya Stark now. She battled, one hand holding on to Sansa’s while the other swinging her sword. Needle. Not Valyrian Steel, Dany knew. The crannogman climbed onto the other claw by now, and for a moment, his eyes met Dany’s. His gaze sent shiver down Dany’s spine. He nodded with resolution in his eyes. Then he jumped, arms open wide to grab the two that battled Arya Stark, and Dany shouted, “Up! Up now!”. Rhaegal rose as he instinctively locked his claws together, those settling in the safety of them watched along Dany as the crannogman who gave his life for Arya Stark disappeared in a mass of wights.

They returned as swift as they could, gently lowering above the ground, Dany watching as Ser Davos and Ser Jorah rushed forth, this time with little care for coming so close to the dragons. Once more she watched as one by one Rhaegal’s cargo was freed from his clutch, shouts for maester increasing as Sansa Stark was helped to the ground. Then Rhaegal rose and Drogon took his place, this time Jon watching. Dany looked on as he took in the sight, his face darkening, as sheer pain took over him. Then he nodded and Drogon rose.

They didn’t need to discuss the plan. They returned to the marshes, to where Greywater Watch, full of awe and wonder once stood. And they burned it, burned everything in sight, mainly wights, but as she watched Drogon and Rhaegal breathing fire Dany remembered the squirrels rushing up high on the willows, the beavers eagerly chewing away on their logs, readying them to build their home, the birds that settled under the roof of Greywater Watch. She remembered, and she mourned.

Suddenly she heard it. Jon must’ve heard it too, for Rhaegal also stopped breathing fire on whatever was left below them. They both looked toward the source of the sound. North of the ruins of Greywater Watch, in the water. There was something in the water. Someone.

Rhaegal dove in and in an instant, reached into the water, grabbing it. Him. For Dany could see now, it was Sandor Clegane. And he was very much alive for he was kicking and screaming as he was lifted out of the fire and water, just as the burning trees began to break and fall in.

It was enough, she thought. She looked around but couldn’t see wights, she could only see flames. She took one last glance at the ruins before she nodded to Jon, and the two dragons set out to return to camp.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deadcount  
> \- Quagg - RIP  
> \- Lord Glover - no RIP wishes  
> \- Lord Cerwyn - no RIP wishes  
> \- Edd Tollett - RIP  
> \- young crannogboy falling into the water  
> \- and the Crannog guard giving his life for Arya
> 
> \- GREYWATER WATCH - You were magical, you were beautiful and "full of awe and wonder" as Dany said. But this is Game of Thrones... RIP Greywater Watch.


	48. The Kingsroad V.

Jon circled around above the camp. In truth this must’ve been the dozenth circle Rhaegal flew, as Jon held on to the two pikes he used for this purpose, as if it meant holding on to life itself.

The camp of the Golden Company was so orderly, he thought. The elephants were herded together, they didn’t seem to have a care for the world. They were surrounded by countless grey tents, and campfires lit the whole setup. Just north, much closer than he would’ve liked it, as similar scene with countless black tents, and to the side, a much smaller number of red tents. All orderly lined up, neatly standing next to each other. Campfires lit, men wandering about. Guards at their posts. Reed doubled the guards, or Ser Jaime did, Jon thought, watching them.

Fuck this, man up, he told himself and Rhaegal dove in. They landed just north of the red tents, right behind the few white ones in between. The command tents.

Jon walked straight in, the few men who weren’t tucked into their sleeping blankets looking at him with surprise in their eyes. They didn’t expect his return in the middle of the night, and perhaps, they didn’t expect the sight. He knew he was covered in ash. He didn’t even bother to dismount Rhaegal after he and Dany returned to camp up north, he merely circled around while Dany landed. No, he had to do his duty, and his duty now was possibly the most painful he’s ever had. He stopped at the entrance of the tent for only a moment, before he walked in.

They knew, of course they did, Jon told himself taking in the scene. Jaime sat at the table with Reed, his one hand on Reed’s shoulder, who buried his face in his one hand. Jon Connington and Grey Worm stood at distance. The three of them looked at Jon with the same surprise, shock even, but not Reed. Reed didn’t look up.

“Howland,” Jon began, “I came to take you to the northern camp.”

Reed looked up, his grey eyes empty and shallow. “Have you burned it to the ground, Jon?”

“I hope not,” he said truthfully, “But I had no choice, they were all over it.”

“I know,” Reed whispered, “I saw. I saw right until… until it took to burn and then I couldn’t, I just couldn’t….”

Jon sat down beside him, his hand taking Reed’s.

“I am so sorry,” how empty this sounded, Jon thought, words he spoke because that’s what people say when someone loses something. What is there to say when someone loses everything?

“Quagg?” Hope flickered through Reed’s eyes.

Jon shook his head, “I know not, he may have escaped. Clegane did, and we knew nothing of it until the very end before we left.”

Reed nodded, but Jon saw in his eyes that he didn’t believe it.

“I grew up with Quagg,” he said then, “You know what his name was? His mother was from some southern fishing village, got lost in the marshes. Dreamed to be a lady, but well, love doesn’t consider such things… so she ended up at the Watch duly wedded, but she still named her firstborn Balerion. After the dragon. I suppose she was from a Crackclaw Point village or even Claw Isle. But she told us all these stories about dragons when we were little.” He chuckled. “I never asked. Gods what kind of man I am, I never even asked. And he was the brother I never had.”

Jon Connington handed Reed a cup, then Jaime and Jon, and Jon wondered at first where he got the nerve, but he raised his cup then, “To Quagg!”

Thus Jon was obliged and raised the cup he got, and drank. It was soothing. He watched as Reed emptied his cup.

“What happened,” Reed asked then.

“I don’t know,” Jon shook his head, “Truly Howland, I don’t. I didn’t stop at the camp. But we got out one of your men, too.”

“Just one?”

Jon looked up, his eyes full of the guilt he felt. “I can tell you what I saw, Howland. When I arrived, the wights were surrounding the Watch, whomever escaped were in two boats on the river. They were trying to get them, Dany and I got them out. There were three of yours with them. One fell into the water, and one… he must’ve fallen or something for I was to pick him up and I did not see. I can’t see Rhaegal’s claws when I ride him. But he wasn’t there when I left them in the camp. Dany got one out.”

“What in seven hells happened,” Jaime sat back in his chair, “How could they have reached Greywater Watch?!”

“I don’t know, I said already,” Jon shot an angry look at Ser Jaime before he turned to Reed. “I want to take you to the northern camp, Howland. To hear it and to be there when your men arrive. The fight is ongoing I believe, they’ll be there soon.”

“What is the point, Jon?” Reed’s eyes grew angry.

“What do you mean…”

“What is the point of going North, then running South?” Reed stood then, “What is the fucking point of all of this?! They won’t end in the Neck Jon, they’ll come after us.”

“They will, and we will trap them at the God’s Eye, remember? We wanted them to come after us,” Jon stood as well. He never saw Reed angry before, the sight was rather frightening as Reed’s one hand grabbed the chair he sat in a moment ago and threw it aside. “Remind me, did we plan to burn my home to the ground, as well? My home, Jon! My home, my father’s home, the home of generations upon generations of Reeds and Crannogmen, our life! Why should I go North, what is left for me there?!”

“Your people,” Jon spoke calmly, soothingly he hoped. “Your people will be there, running after fighting ice spiders and dead bears and men and whatnot, and they must’ve seen the smoke rising. You are their Lord, Howland and they look to you. You told me mere days ago your responsibility is with your people. They need you now.”

Reed stood still for a while, and they all waited in silence, until he nodded.

“Ser Jaime, Grey Worm – you have command,” Jon said, glancing at Connington. “And you have orders.” Then he turned and left the tent after Reed who was already out.

It was easier than Jon thought it would be, he climbed atop and grabbed Reed’s one hand, pulling him atop to sit in front of him. Rhaegal as if he knew set out so smoothly, flew so carefully, that Jon was in awe. The dragon shrieked as he neared the northern camp, and they saw men with torches come out to stand in a circle. They landed in the middle of it and Rhaegal stretched out his wing, so Reed merely needed to slide off. Jon said a silent thank you to the dragon.

The way to the tent was silent and swift, but they both startled as they entered. Jon tried to prepare himself, but the sight was not one he could prepare for.

Davos, Dany and Ser Jorah stood aside, and a few camp beds have been moved in. On one of them, Arya slept, Jon could see the bandages on her arms. On the other was Sansa, and it occurred to Jon she was not merely sleeping.

“The maester had to give her milk of the poppy,” Davos stepped close to Jon and explained softly, “Her hand. That and she twisted an ankle but that will heal and some nasty bruises but those will heal as well, but her hand, that is bad. She said she reached to the fire with it, the master had to peel the burned flesh off and little remained on her bones.”

Jon shivered at the thought, his lips pressed tightly, every bit of his conscience focusing on not rushing to Sansa then. Davos’ eyes turned to Reed, “She could not stop crying, that is why the maester had to put her to sleep, she kept crying that she burned it down. She said she took a log to… Gods Jon. You two have a seat, you’ll need it.”

“She took a log to what?” Reed asked, taking a step back, but Dany walked to him and took his hand in hers.

“Lord Reed, please sit with me,” she said kindly and led Reed to the table.

“She said she woke in the night for she felt cold, and she knew, so she grabbed Longclaw and jumped out of bed. She had one of them in the room with her but then two other entered and she was trapped by the hearth. She took a log to burn one for she could not cut them down.”

Davos’ eyes settled on Reed once more, “Lord Reed, the one in her room was…”

“Quagg.” Reed merely whispered, glancing up at Davos who nodded.

“How did they get to the Watch?” Reed asked then, fairly confidently, but Jon knew, he could hear in Reed’s voice how it took all his willpower to stay calm. Jon looked at Edric.

“I merely know how we got out, Jon,” Edric said. “They were everywhere. Not rotting ones, fresh ones. The folk I drank with an hour before.” Jon shook his head and Edric swallowed. “Forgive me, Lord Reed.”

“I want to hear all of it,” Reed declared, sitting back in the chair, his eyes fixed on Edric, just when the tent flap opened and the maester joined them, followed by a visibly patched up Brienne, Sam and a crannogman.

“Peat,” Reed stood just as the young man, or perhaps merely a boy, rushed to him and jumped into his one arm.

“My Lord,” the boy cried, “My Lord Howland I am so sorry. I am so sorry, I was on watch, I am so sorry. I told them not to bring it in, I told them to burn it!”

“What happened, Peat,” Jon asked calmly, but the boy couldn’t let go of Reed just yet.

“Hush now,” Ser Jorah stepped behind the boy, “Let the Lord Howland breathe. Here, take a seat, Peat, tell us what happened. It is all right now.”

Jon wondered about the soothing effect that Jorah Mormont could have on the boy, for he slowly let go of Reed, and took the chair offered.

“It was the old Boggs,” he began the tale. “I was at watch out on the pier. See they didn’t return from collecting the nets that evening, so I thought it best to sit out on the pier, so I can see them coming at a distance perhaps… Harry Greengood and the Swale boys. Then they returned, and they had the body of old Boggs with them. They found him, he was out just the morning laying the nets and he didn’t return either. So they brought him in, they thought a snake got to him. But it was suspicious, see it was old Boggs, was out with him before many times, he would not get bitten by a snake. I told them, leave it out there. But they brought him in, and I told them, they must leave him on the pier. So we argued, and I told them, I go and fetch the Queen if they stand watch, and Lord Edric for while Lord Howland is gone he said look to the Queen and Lord Edric for order. So I went to fetch them. I merely turned on the corridor when I heard them scream, and I looked back but I saw nothing. None of them. That was suspicious, so I wanted to wake Lord Edric, but I bumped into Quagg first. I told him to hurry for there is something I know it, they brought a dead body and we rushed but then we turned at the gate and by then they were on their feet. Quagg sent me to fetch Lord Edric once more and I called out, and the Lord Edric came and the Lady Arya. And when we returned to the gate there was no one.”

“I asked the Lord Edric what to do, and he told me to ring the bell, so I did. He told me to fetch boats, so I did, for he told me if there are dead in the Watch they will leave it if we leave it, so we leave it, we escape. Then the Lord Edric went to fetch the rest. I was by the pier. I just heard it. There were… sounds. Screams and sounds, like… I don’t know, Lord Howland, it didn’t sound like men.”

“They were no longer men,” Reed said, his hand on the boy’s, “You did right, Peat, Lord Edric spoke true and you did right by following his commands.”

“But it burned down! The Watch!”

They all turned to Edric then who took a deep breath and began to continue the tale.

“I went to fetch Brienne at first for I needed fighting force, when I turned the corridor I heard the screams and a wight emerged from Jon’s chamber.” Jon swallowed at that. Of course, he noted to himself, they went to the Watch because HE is after him. He wanted Jon, so they went to hunt him down.

“Brienne came and then Sam Tarly peaked out of the Solar, just at that moment the wight rushed at us. There was commotion, and suddenly they were all over the place. I know not how, they were… Lord Reed, those men who brought in the body, I assume the body rose and killed them, then they went on and killed the rest. For by the time we dealt with the one, they were all upon us, and they weren’t themselves. I told Brienne about the boats and she took Samwell. I told them to take the boy, Peat.”

“Then I went to fetch the Queen, and I ran into the boy who was with us, so he joined me. Then I ran into lady Arya once more, with the man who was with us, they were fighting so we helped them. But by then the corridor to the Queen was blocked, they were all coming at us. I told the lady Arya to go take a boat with our boy, but she said to take the Queen through the window. And truly, it seemed our only option, for the Queen was nowhere to be seen. The Lord Reed moved her to his chambers before he left, and lady Arya said there’s a large window there, we could take the boat and break the glass and get her out. Because the Queen locks the chamber door.”

“Quagg had keys to every door,” Reed whispered, “I told the Queen to stay there for the nights so she could lock the door on herself when she rests. The lady Arya was staying there with her.”

“She was not,” Edric explained, “She took to patrol the corridors at night. That’s why she was out. Anyways, we took a boat and they all followed us, the boy had time to only get one more so we all took that one and we left. They merely returned to the keep.”

“Next I know, we were under the window and lady Arya is trying to climb up to wake the Queen. Suddenly there was fire inside. I threw a stone to smash the glass. The Queen jumped out the window straight into the shallow water, and we dragged her into the boat.” He looked up to Jon, “The rest you know. Edd Tollett jumped out of a window and swam to us, we dragged him into the boat as well, just when you arrived and they began to line up.”

Jon sighed. “Aye, and we tried to burn them, so you could escape, while the keep got on fire.”

“There was a Walker with them,” Dany continued the report, “and they laid logs across the river, to trap the boats. They prepared for your escape.”

“Who was with you?” Reed asked then, but Edric only shook his head.

“The young Howland Blackmyre,” Peat said, “and Miccah Clay.”

“Muddy Clay?” Reed raised an eyebrow, “Muddy Clay was in the boat, and yet he’s not here?”

“He saved Arya’s life,” Dany said and they all looked at her as she began to recall in a sombre voice, “When Edric got on with your queen, lady Arya was pulled down by wights. He was on as well, and he looked at me. Then he jumped at the wights. That’s why I shouted for you to rise quickly Jon, they would’ve tried to pull everyone down if you didn’t.”

Reed sighed. “He was my other… brother from another mother. When I was young, the three of us did everything together. Later too, to speak the truth. It is very much like him, jump into death to save someone else.”

“His son used to guard the Queen,” Peat said then, “Truly, we began to tease him for he kept going on about the Queen. I swear Mikken fell in love with the Queen, he was at her door day and night and followed her like a pup.”

“She said both her guards turned by the time she woke,” Arya rose from the bed, and Jon reached his arm toward her. Arya rushed to Jon, held him, until he sat her in his lap.

“Gods he could not have taken that,” Reed said lowly, “Mikken was his only son. He mourned mine harder than I did, if he lost his… he couldn’t have taken that.”

“He shouldn’t have jumped,” Arya whispered. “I had a plan, I would’ve gotten out, he shouldn’t have jumped…” her voice trailed off as she buried her face in Jon’s neck.

“Who else got out?” Reed asked then, looking around to see their faces because no answer came.

“We found Sandor Clegane when we returned to burn them wights,” Jon added. “We found no one else. I’m sorry, Howland.”

“I am too,” Reed whispered. “Foolish boys, we are fighting dead men and they bring a dead body to the Watch.”

“Aye, it’s classic,” Jon said and they all looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The first wight I saw was brought to Castle Black. By us,” he said apologetically. “It was the same, we all went in for the night then Ghost woke me. He led me to Lord Commander Mormont’s chambers, and I had key for I was his steward, so I went in. There was nothing amiss, but we could not enter his sleeping chambers for he also locked every door. He didn’t trust them rapists and burglars and murderers, and well, it’s proven he’s had reason not to. All I remember is I turn and there’s the same man whose body we brought in, standing in front of me, pale as snow, eyes like ice. And the fucker didn’t want to die. In the end, in my desperation I grabbed the lantern and threw at him for I lost my sword. That’s how I learned that wights burn. See, it is the same. Leave one of ours behind and our folk will take them in, for we love our own. Then he has someone on the inside, no need to do anything else. Each that one kills will be one of his.”

“There is something else to this,” Ser Jorah stepped forward. “You say that wight went for my… the Lord Commander. Lord Edric said they were in your room before anywhere else. They go for those who matter, first.”

“Like a mission,” Edric added. “And that is why they went after the Queen, as well. I take it she was resting.”

“Quagg had key,” Reed repeated. “He was one of the few who knew where she sleeps. I told them to keep it to them. See, none is allowed on my corridor at night, except the guards.”

Jon said a silent thank you to Reed for his cautious foresight, for placing Sansa there. Not that it mattered, the men most trusted were the men turned against them. They sat in silence after that. At one point, Arya reached out to take Reed’s hand and hold it. At another, Sansa shuffled on the bed. She was dreaming, Jon thought. A nightmare she couldn’t wake from, it was visible.

Reed watched too, and now he stood, and walked to sit beside her on the bed, his hand laid on her forehead. He turned to the maester.

“Bring me your supplies,” he ordered, sternly. The maester hesitantly looked to Jon who nodded, and he rushed out of the tent.

“Ser Jorah, if you would lend me your good hands,” Reed said then, “If you have the stomach for it. I take it this won’t look nice.”

He took Sansa’s bundled hand and laid out, hanging in the air from the bed. “Hold it, gently, don’t press,” and Ser Jorah obliged.

Reed unfolded the linen with his one steady hand, slowly. It was stuck into the wound, and Jorah flinched often at the sight.

“That maester is a butcher,” Reed whispered, “Jon, give me your dagger.”

Arya shuffled off Jon’s lap and he rushed to hand over the dagger. Sansa’s hand was shambles, flesh and skin hanging on the bones, in pieces as if a wolf tore at it. “Ser Jorah,” Reed looked up and Jorah nodded. They began to cut off pieces of her flesh, Jorah held them up while Reed cut, and Jon watched hand on his mouth in horror. When they were done, Reed cut some more, burned flesh and skin, then he pulled on Sansa’s healthy skin, whatever was left. “I need a needle and thread,” Reed said.

“She has a small box in her pocket,” Arya said to their surprise. “Her sewing kit, she always has it.”

Jon unwrapped her and searched her overcoat until he found it, amazed at what all Sansa carried in her pockets. It wasn’t much, a needle and thin linen thread. He didn’t know what to do with it once he opened it.

“Ahh, give it to me,” Arya rushed forth, unphased by the sight of Sansa’s hand. Just then, the maester returned, shocked at the sight, but one look from Jon silenced him.

Ser Jorah held the hand, while Arya began to try and put the thread through the tiny needle hole for Reed. Reed looked through the box of supplies, putting bottles on the table.

“A cup,” he said and Edric moved swiftly to hand him a clean one. He began to pour liquids from the small bottles. The maester opened his mouth to speak but decided against it in the end.

The emerging stench was not unfamiliar to Jon. He remembered the same smell when Reed treated his own wounds. “This will do,” Reed said more to himself as he turned, cup in hand. He sat back on the campbed and poured its content onto the hand. It fizzled on the flesh. Sansa moved, and Jon remembered the pain he felt when Reed did this to him. He was screaming, he recalled. Sansa was put down with milk of the poppy, she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t tell them it’s too much. Jon’s heart broke for her once more.

The enormous wound slowly ceased to fizzle. Reed seemed to wait for this, by now being surrounded by all of them watching the operation.

Now, we’ll close it,” he said, looking at Ser Jorah. “Pull the skin, but don’t touch the edges. We don’t want anything from your hand in the wound now. I wouldn’t close it, but we’ll be on the march soon, she can’t be with an open wound like this. It won’t heal as well as it could, but it must be done, to save the hand.”

“Let me do it,” Jon said, he didn’t know why, he didn’t even think of it. He wanted to help. He wanted to hold her.

Jorah nodded and stood, and Jon took his place. Sitting on the other campbed, he laid Sansa’s hand in his lap. He took her fingers in his hand from underneath, one by one, pushing her skin upwards, and Reed began to sew the edges together with tiny, orderly stitches. It was relatively easy with the fingers, but then they got to her palm. No matter how Jon tried, he couldn’t pull enough skin to cover her palm, there was no skin on it whatsoever. Reed sighed as he pulled up her sleeve and took the dagger. He sliced a piece of skin off her inner arm, and placed it on the wound. Then he sliced another from nearby and did the same. Then he stitched it all neatly together. And after that, he stitched the new wounds together.

He stood and reached into his own pocket for a small pouch, and clumsily opened it. Leaves. Once more the master gasped but didn’t speak. They all watched as Reed laid leaves on the wound, wrapped the fingers, covered the palm and the new cuts.

“Give me fresh linen,” he ordered the maester, and the maester handed him a roll. He carefully wrapped the hand, each finger separately, then he stitched the end of the linen to the bundle. It was done. It certainly looked much neater than before.

“Will she be alright?” Arya’s voice was thin, full of worry.

“Her fever has to break first,” Reed said, “She shouldn’t have been given milk of the poppy, not with this fever. Someone must watch over her, if her breathing becomes too ragged, too disorderly, she must be awoken else we’ll lose her. Once the fever breaks, then we’ll know if she’ll be alright.”

Jon closed his eyes at that, at the possibility of losing her. It never occurred to him before that this was a possibility. Throughout the whole war, and the war before that, he never questioned it. He kept sending her to safety just to be certain, but regardless, he realised now that never had any doubt. In his eyes, Sansa was a survivor, she survived Ramsay Bolton. She could survive anything. Hells, she survived fighting dead men, twice. Jon couldn’t imagine that she could not survive a burned hand and a strained ankle, and a fever.

Then they heard the horn and they all jumped, Jon laying the hand back on the bed and swiftly proceeding to tuck her in under the blankets.

“Thank you, Howland,” he whispered as he stood, and Reed nodded.

“And so it begins, again” Edric said lowly, sadly.

“Aye, so it begins,” Jon added. “Get on with it.” Edric nodded, taking order as a soldier, and rushed out of the tent. He had orders, a camp to dismantle in record time, men to feed, prepare to march forth in the night, wounded had to be tended to, while supplies had to be packed up. They were to get on the move once more, on the run, in the very near future, perhaps within the hour. Jon could hear him outside shouting orders. The camp came alive in an instant.

“Howland,” he turned to Reed, but Reed raised his hand.

“I know my duty, Jon,” he said sternly, “I’ve been doing it long before you did.” Then he turned to Peat, “Not a word of any of this to the men, Peat. I want Quagg’s sons to hear it from me first.” The boy nodded, then followed Reed out of the tent. Jon’s eyes settled on Sansa.

“Jon, we ought to go,” Dany whispered, stepping closer to him. Arya’s eyes once more shot fire and hatred at Daenerys.

“I know,” Jon whispered.

“You can’t leave us now,” Arya protested, and Jon leaned down to face her, holding her by the shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he looked straight into her eyes, “There’s a fleet of Ironborn sent to take Dragonstone and rape and murder our people, if not done yet. Arya, that is why I must go. Stop acting like a child and take care of your sister for me.” He kissed her forehead as she nodded, biting on her lower lip.

Then he stepped to the campbed where Sansa lay, thickly covered in the blankets, but it seemed that she was breathing more evenly now, more peaceful. She still looked so awfully pale, and Jon remembered her hand, barely some flesh and bones and hanging skin. She may never sew again with that hand, Jon thought bitterly. He knelt beside the camp bed, gently wiping her sweaty locks from her face. She felt hot to the touch, sweat bubbling on her forehead that Jon wiped away. She had fever, he could tell. “Sleep now, beautiful,” he leaned close and whispered to her, “Sleep now. And when you wake, remember, I always return to you. I always return home. Now don’t you dare breaking your promise, don’t leave me behind.”

He leaned up and kissed her forehead, lengthily, before he stood and rushed out of the tent. He knew Daenerys was following as he made his way to the dragons and climbed atop Rhaegal. They had work to do, and for a split-second Jon prayed they won’t be late. He could not have another Winterfell – White Harbor day. Not after this and not on this scale.

 

 


	49. The Kingsroad VI.

“Lord Reed?”

Sansa watched as Reed startled, froze mid-motion before he turned. He was preparing his small makeshift campbed. Quite ingenious really, she thought, instead of the usual Iron and canvas structure Reed pulled together two large trunks and laid a sleeping mattress on top.

“You sleep on that?” she wondered.

“It’s my back, your grace,” Reed explained somewhat embarrassed. “Age does get to each and every one of us. For me, it is the back. Riding all day doesn’t do much good to it.”

Sansa nodded. She understood, she was barely standing on her own feet, even with the clutch, and she remembered the days when cold winds rose and the bones and joints in her body beaten and battered reminded her of all she went through in Ramsay’s hands, in the icy Knife and beyond, just to survive. As if he read her thoughts, suddenly Reed rushed to her, grabbed her arm. “You shouldn’t be on your feet. Not a day past we worried to lose you, and it’s been a long day. And night.”

He gently pulled her toward the structure that was his bed, but she didn’t allow herself to be seated. Not just yet, for what she had to say she was to say it standing on her feet. As if her burning ankle was the reminder. No, her burning hand was the reminder, and she felt it acutely, as if it was literally burning still.

“I came to thank you, I’m told you saved my hand and my life,” she said lowly, gratefully but without any conviction in her words of the worth in the deed she described. “And… to apologise. Albeit I know it’s worthless.” She swallowed, looking for the right words, feeling Reed’s eyes on her as she stared at her boots. “I wish I was brave, lord Reed. Like Miccah Clay, when he jumped off the dragon to save Arya’s life. I can’t thank him for it, for he jumped to his death. I thought so many times that I am not afraid to die, not after all that… But when it came to it, I was afraid to die. As much as I can remember, all I could think of how to survive and I didn’t consider anything else. I find that vain. Unjustifiable. I took everything from you and your people, you welcomed me into your home and I…” her voice trailed off, and she swallowed once more before she raised her head, her eyes meeting Howland Reed’s.

“I started the fire that burned down your home. Your people’s home. If anyone did that to Winterfell, I know not what I would do to them. I can’t ask for your forgiveness for there is nothing…”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Reed said softly. “This is fever talking, your grace, for it still has a grip on you. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

“My mind is clear, lord Reed,” Sansa protested. Truly, it was. It’s never been clearer. After the last few days, and the thoughts that lingered throughout, she almost felt like she’s been cleansed of all uncertainties. It was all so clear now. “I just wanted to stand before you and tell you. I am sorry. I feel you deserved to know that if I could go back, I would not do it. Not with what I know now, I know who I am now.”

“You are our Queen,” Reed declared, his expression somewhat confused at this scene, Sansa could see it clearly in his eyes. “And you did what you had to do, and I don’t blame you. No one does.”

She smiled, not out of any kindness but more of pity. Not for herself and certainly not for any selfish reasons. “I saw how the men look at me, all day long they were turning, watching, while I limped here they were whispering behind my back. I can’t tell what, I don’t claim to know. I just feel sorry for them. They had a king, a good one, capable. Now they have me. I feel sorry for them, lord Reed.”

Reed once more motioned for her to sit, “Please, your grace.”

She sat finally, slowly. It was a process to lower herself trying to avoid the shooting pain in her hip that she hit when she jumped, then lifting her bodyweight onto her better leg, swiftly lifting the one with the strained ankle from under herself as she held on to the clutch, carefully, not to move the ankle even an inch. Then she had to lower herself holding on to the clutch with the one good arm she still had use of. Her swordarm, she thought sarcastically. What a joke. She was glad, just as every time before now, when she felt hitting the surface. She became quite good at this, it didn’t even hurt this time, she noted to herself as she straightened the leg slowly, still caring for the ankle to be still. Then she looked up straight at Reed, who surely was watching the whole operation. He moved to sit beside her.

“Your grace this looks…”

“Sansa,” she said somewhat firmly, “My name. It is only the two of us here.” Reed’s smile seemed quite appreciative too her, enough not to explain any further.

“Then, it’s Howland, your grace,” he said, “If we disperse with titles it is only fair. Sansa.”

“Thank you, Howland,” she returned the smile. “I heard Jon calls you that.”

“Aye, when he means to give purpose to his words, he does,” Reed laughed.

“Arya told me why he’s not with us,” she eagerly changed topic, after all this was one of the reasons why she limped all this way. “I would ask you, Howland to tell me what you know. Why Jon thinks that the Ironborn would do such things.”

“Theon is but one man,” Reed responded, clearly understanding the conundrum she referred to. “His sister I hear is indeed at harbour on Dragonstone. But he has an uncle too.”

“He told me of him,” Sansa added, remembering, “A vile man. Quite like Ramsay, from what Theon shared.”

“Aye, and queen Cersei’s ally.”

She flinched at that. “And Cersei sent him to rape and murder my people, to attack them at their most vulnerable, our refugees… women, children and the old who could not take up arms. This is so… Cersei. And I can’t protect them. Gods, Howland, I can’t protect anyone. No one can protect anyone. I told this much to Jon, he didn’t believe me. He tries to protect each and every soul. Of course, it’s Jon rushing to the rescue, as always. And I can’t do anything, I can’t even protect myself. What kind of Queen am I, Howland? What use is there for a queen like me if I can’t even protect my people?”

Reed laid his hand on hers. “More than you could think. You may not lead them in battle or fly around on a dragon, that is true. But you teach them. Resilience, bravery, strength. True strength, survival. Patience. Kindness. Love. I’m sure you noticed how they watched you all day?”

“It’s hard to miss,” she sighed, “They whisper behind my back, just as I limped here I could hear it.”

“What you couldn’t hear for you were yet to wake was how many prayers were offered for your safe return to us. How many of them blessed you and asked the Gods to keep you. They love you, Sansa. They need you.”

“What they need is home,” she whispered. “Peace, fire in the hearth and grain stores full for the winter and furs and wools and… Winter is here, Howland.”

“Aye, in more ways than one,” Reed chuckled once more.

“What will you do?” she asked then, truly curious, “after Jon wins the war. He will win, he has the numbers to do it, one battle to end it. But what will you do after that? After what happened…”

“Truly, I know not,” Reed whispered, “I don’t think of it, it’s too soon. When I think of it, I think of the smell of the saltwater washed wood and my wife’s tapestries on the walls. I can’t think of it. We have to win first.”

Her guilt washed over her once more as she remembered the tapestries, the linen dress she wore when they were still all together at Greywater Watch. She could almost call them happy, when compared… she could see now how childish it all was, her thoughts while they were all still together. She had days to ponder on it. Most of it seemed so insignificant, her jealous fits and her doubts. There was only one thing that seemed significant: Jon was going south, and the grip she felt in her throat every time she thought of it was reminding her how cruel this was. How she worried that one day only a raven will come. How she knew she would react. How the North would burn. She could almost see it, even now.

“How did they know?” she turned to Reed, “How did Jon and Daenerys know that Cersei sent Theon’s uncle to Dragonstone?”

“The Golden Company,” Reed began to explain, “They seem to have use for a spymaster, and he spied it out. Then they revealed it to us. Jon took a head for it.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Though, if she gave it proper thought, she could imagine Jon to do such a thing. Jon was kind and gentle and strong, just like father said. He was fair and just. But Jon could also be ruthless, cruel and quick-tempered. Yes, he could be cruel. He could behead a man without hesitation.

“They believe there is a traitor among us,” Reed added lowly. “They can’t seem to find the culprit. But I agree with it, for Cersei Lannister sent the Ironborn before the Dothraki left Dragonstone. She knew of our movements, Sansa. This means, someone revealed those movements to her.”

Her eyes narrowed as her mind subconsciously began to list names. “Someone privy to war councils,” she began to ponder aloud. “That is, you, me, Arya, Sam, Theon, Ser Davos, Brienne, Edric, Edd Tollett, Glover, Cerwyn. The Dragon Queen’s posse, Ser Jorah, the unsullied and the girl. And Ser Jaime.”

“That is not all the list,” Reed corrected. “We merely heard the decision, we didn’t execute it. Add Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion to your list.”

Sansa thought of that for a moment. “It is Varys,” she declared, “I am sure of it.”

“Why?”

“Varys was close to father,” Sansa remembered bitterly, “It’s something Arya said when Varys arrived at Winterfell. She made me promise not to speak to him. She said when we were in Kings Landing, she overheard Varys speaking of father’s death. Before he was arrested, down in the crypts, with another man she could not see. But she knew it was Varys when Varys arrived at Winterfell, she recognised the voice.”

“Interesting,” Reed was deep in thought, “Varys served the Lannister regime. Then helped Lord Tyrion escape and they went to serve Daenerys. I did wonder why.”

“What if he still serves the Lannisters,” Sansa asked. “What if he went and convinced Daenerys of his loyalty only to be able to betray her movements to Cersei?” She sighed, “I sound ridiculous. He may as well have had enough of Kings Landing, I know I did, for a lifetime. He may just as well have seen Cersei for what she is and decided to get another on the throne.”

“He may,” Reed said. “But with your permission, I would tell this to Jon.”

“He would think I am conspiring, Howland,” she said sarcastically, “It’s not like I would not. IF I knew of a way to get Jon back, I would do it. He knows this. Best to keep this between us until he finds proof.”

“There is proof of something here,” Reed smiled appreciatively at Sansa, “Proof that at least I serve an intelligent Queen.”

Sansa didn’t return the smile. “Truth now, Howland,” she said instead, her voice almost a whisper. “If I was so intelligent, I would’ve knelt in front of Daenerys. Winter is here. Your home is in ruins, our home is in ruins. We may defeat the dead, but we surely can’t defeat winter, and we have no winter supplies. We need southern aid. Perhaps I could beg the Iron Bank, that is what I was considering in these past days. But why would they lend me? What assurances can a devastated kingdom give that they’ll pay up? We need southern aid, and I doubt it’ll come without my kneeling to Daenerys. But I just can’t. You see, I am not near as smart as you think me to be. My pride is much stronger than my sense of responsibility for my people. I know I will never kneel to her, so I suppose, we’ll starve or freeze to death. Winter is here.”

Howland stood, somewhere around the pride and responsibility part, for he couldn’t believe his own ears. Now he merely stared into Sansa’s eyes, lengthily. Then suddenly, to Sansa’s dismay, he laughed.

“Now you’ll say the fever still has me,” she said bitterly.

“I say no such thing,” Howland whispered, crouching down in front of her. “Merely, Jon said something similar if not in these many words, to Benjen and myself. The time for independence has passed, he said.”

“Why would he say such a thing,” Sansa asked, “he gave his life for that independence.”

“Aye, he likes to sacrifice himself.”

“He sure does,” Sansa chuckled, “But why do it if he doesn’t believe in it?”

“For the people,” Reed explained, “I never asked, but I think he did it for the people. We were to fight against dead men. He gave us pride to do it, then he gave us reason to continue. Imagine the reaction if he knelt in the great hall of Winterfell for all to see.”

“The same reaction we wanted to avoid when we lied about him from the start.”

Reed only nodded. He once more took her hand in his. “Knowledge is power, Sansa.”

She understood. This is what she tried to make herself believe for days. Only the experience of almost dying, trying to escape, having to be saved and the destruction of Greywater Watch could make her believe it. She spent thinking about it this whole past day as she suffered atop a horse. If she was honest to herself, those were the thoughts that helped her not falling off. Those were the same thoughts, for the most part, that drove her to limp across the camp to this tent.

“I can’t kneel to Daenerys,” she said then. “I cant stand her. She took Jon.”

Reed merely looked at her.

“She said it’s her birthright,” Sansa explained, “Horseshit, that’s what Jon used to say. It’s not her birthright. She came to conquer, she may have believed it was her birthright but it’s not hers, it’s Jon’s. She’s only second in line, she has no birthright while Jon lives.”

Reed nodded. It didn’t seem to Sansa that he agreed, not necessarily, merely understood her viewpoint perhaps. A flicker of thought rushed through her conscience questioning why she didn’t mind.

“Do you see why I had to tell her?” She asked desperately. “I told her, if she caused him harm it’ll be the end of her. I’ll come for her, I don’t care if she burns me alive or the whole North even, I’ll end her, Howland. She has no birthright. If she valued birthright she would’ve stepped aside.”

“When you work for something for your whole life,” Reed explained, consciously noting to himself that this was as much advising a Queen as a conversation between friends, now, “Imagine, you suffer, you survive, and there is only one goal you work for all your life, you grew up listening to how it is yours, how it was taken from you… Then just when you’re there, you learn that it was a mistake. It’s not yours, it’s someone else’s whom you never heard of before. Your whole life taken from you, just like that.”

She sighed. “Sometimes I think she keeps saving us and aiding us hoping we’ll hail her in the end,” she said, “Sometimes I think she does it to win Jon’s affections. I’ve seen how she looks at him.”

“The same way you look at him,” Reed glanced up at her with a raised eyebrow. “That is the woman talking, Sansa. He has your heart, and he has hers.”

“Does he…” she swallowed, before she whispered, “does he love her?”

“It’s not mine to tell,” Reed said softly, “even if I knew. I don’t. I know you have a place in his heart, albeit it may not be the place you covet.”

“I know that,” she looked down at her hand in Reed’s. “I know it’s futile. Whatever happens it’s futile. If we die, if he goes south, if he takes the Iron Throne… it’s futile. There’s death in the way, or there’s Daenerys in the way, and even if he was king, there was independence in the way.”

“You just said so yourself, we’ll starve to death without the south.”

Sansa chuckled. “I thought of it too, Howland.”

Reed raised an eyebrow at that.

“The fairy tale ending. He would take the Iron Throne, and I would wed him like I dreamed to wed Aemon the Dragonknight when I was a little girl. Even before this war began, I dreamed about it, he would lead us to victory against the dead then reveal who he was, and somehow, he would rid the world of Cersei for he is Jon because, in my naivety I thought that after the world has seen him fight, the people would follow him. For I thought he is Jon, he can do anything… and when he’s king he would marry me. The North would give up on this idealistic dream of independence and we would receive southern aid to survive and to rebuild.” She smiled apologetically. “Even I can dream. But in the world we live in such things don’t happen. Just think about it, the wars it would start. I lived in Kings Landing, I know what they are all like. Even the kindest and sweetest of them is conspiring for power. Even Margaery played the game.”

“The southern kingdoms would always view Jon as a northerner,” Reed said, “Whatever his name was. And a northern king with a northern queen, from a kingdom that relies on their aid to survive… you are right Sansa.”

“I wouldn’t care,” she said then, resolutely. “Jon left me a kingdom, half a million people as my responsibility. Father used to say being warden was like having all these people as your children to worry about. I have to find a way to feed them and clothe them and keep them warm when this war is over,” she said. “I wouldn’t kneel to Daenerys, ever. I would kneel to Jon, I know I would. I wouldn’t hesitate to. The North would accept it, they know him… they would grumble for sure, but we don’t have Glover to arouse them or Cerwyn to constantly whinge about it. He would help us, I know it. That would be enough for me. It would have to be enough.”

“Jon will never stand against Daenerys, Sansa.”

“No, he will never,” she whispered, “I know it. I would never ask him to, I swear I will never… but tell me, Howland, what will we do? How will we survive this winter?”

Reed pondered on it for a moment, and shook his head, “Truly, I don’t know. But I’ll think about it.”

“I know you will,” Sansa smiled a warm smile at Reed, as her good hand left his, searching her opposite pocket clumsily. “I know you would, even if I didn’t ask. I know you would tell me if you could help me. Father was right about you, bog devil. You are the wisest man the North has ever seen.”

She took a moment, taking in the man’s sight as he knelt before her, his hand holding hers, her mind replaying their conversation. She had what she came for. No, she had that when she first dared to look into Howland Reed's eyes. She had now what she didn't dare to hope for, she thought, smiling. “I thank you for this talk, Howland. I thank you for your honesty and your lack of prejudice for me."

She found what she was looking for and dragged it out of her pocket. A little pouch. She dropped it on her lap, right in front of Reed, and just as clumsily pulled on the string before she emptied it onto her lap. “I would stand, as I know that is custom,” she said, “But I can’t, forgive me.”

Reed’s eyes grew wide as he realised what it was. Her eyes were fixed on Reed’s, “I ask you to think about it, Howland. Help me rebuild the North, for I can’t do it alone. I need your wisdom and counsel to guide me. I hope Jon will forgive me to take it from him.”

Reed chuckled at that.

“Lord Howland Reed,” Sansa’s voice was clear, confident, for the first time in their conversation. “I name you hand of the Queen.”

She took the pin, turning it around in her hand, feeling the little wolf on her fingers. She pinned it gently on Reed’s chest, and his hand went to touch it, feel it. He was proud, Sansa could see, but she saw more. She saw the weight of responsibility settling in his eyes. She wasn’t alone with her thoughts anymore. She knew then that she made the right choice, for once.

Sure, she had Arya before, and Brienne, Edric Snow and Theon. She even could turn to Ser Davos. But neither of them would’ve been a better choice, not for her. She chose right, her certainty grew absolute, while she watched as Reed stood, his hand still on the pin. “I pray I serve you well, your grace.” He whispered as he bowed to her deeply, “You honoured me greatly with your trust. I pray I prove worthy.”

“You will, Howland,” she smiled. She grabbed the handle of her clutch – a stick really, Davos carved a handle on it for her. Reed reached out his one hand.

“Let me walk you back,” he said as he pulled her up, and se flinched as the sharp pains shoot in her ankle, her hip just as she knew they would. “Or better, let me find you a horse and walk you back to your tent. You do need rest, I mean it.”

“I know,” she smiled, slowly resting her weight on Reed as he held her waist, her arm settling on his shoulder. “It may have been foolish to come. But it could not wait. All these things were on my mind. I needed to speak about them, and I knew that only you could hear me out.”

Reed merely nodded as they proceeded out of the tent. Sansa remembered how she felt when she arrived here. She wondered how long she sat on Reed’s trunk-bed, the sun was going down. As she looked around, it seemed so different. The men – crannogmen – watched her all the same, but she didn’t see it as a sign of how despicable she must be to them.

“I haven’t had the chance to thank you,” she said, as she stopped. “For what you all did in the Neck, and the high price you paid. I want you to know it will not be forgotten. The North remembers. I remember.” She smiled at them, and a young man came forward, taking her other side, as many of the men returned her smile. Reed as well, proudly, appreciatively.

Reed didn’t need to search for a horse, or even give an order. The men came, one offered a horse, another a blanket. They helped her on, and Reed took the reins to lead her back to her tent, and the men followed. Sansa wondered how odd it must look, she and her little group of followers, but she didn’t care. As they walked through the camp, wolves came forth, and bowed deeply. Northmen lowered their heads for her. For the first time, as she looked at them she saw it for what it was. They used to bow like this to Jon, and even more so. No, they used to shout their blessings to Jon and waive. They weren’t shouting blessings, they weren’t waiving as she went by, but she didn’t compare. For her, this was enough. Acceptance was enough. She didn’t crave admiration, not that Jon did before, but she knew she could never be like Jon. She’s herself. She’ll do her damnest for them, she knew.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I know perhaps the expectation is to visit Dragonstone, but I needed a change of pace. And Sansa out of the state she was at the end of the last chapter... this was long in the making, it's perhaps a bit "unearned" but it's an instinctive thing. Sorry for the cheesy bits but we needed a bit 'cheesy' after all the grim stuff :)


	50. Dragonstone II / I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: JONERYS!

Jon woke suddenly, his mind searching for a source of threat. There was none. The noises of Dragonstone tricked him, the sound of waves crashing against stone in the storm mixed with the sounds of the wind racing to charge against hundreds upon hundreds of Dothraki huts out in the fields, mixed with countless water drops steadily jumping to their destination wherever gravity called them, and shushing steps of guards outside on the corridors.

At least Jon hoped they were guards. Sleeping in a featherbed felt so unusual, so alien here, the fort felt so much more like a prison, even more so than last time when it was meant to be his prison. There was no Davos to show him the way of escape, he thought. There was no need to escape, he tried to convince his half-awake self. There was no danger.

He should be out there, with them, he told himself again, after telling himself at least a dozen times this past day and night. He told to Dany as much, who merely smiled in return, his eyes full of what Jon perceived to be pity. Or his shame, for he saw it as his shame. His people were out there, crammed into Dothraki huts and tents, albeit Jon was grateful for the Dothraki lending their own sleeping accommodations – he didn’t expect it but as he thought about it, it made sense. It’s not like they’ll need huts on the march, they traded them with northern tents. Easier to assemble. As good as worthless in winter weather.

His mind recalled the warmth of the marshes, Greywater Watch in all its greenery, the jungle, the beavers and the squirrels, colourful frogs he now knew were poisonous to the touch. The beauty of it all. This is a cruel world, he thought bitterly, beauty has no chance to prevail. Greywater Watch was gone, perhaps all the marshes burned down for all he knew.

He wanted to return by now, to see if the men escaped the marshes as planned, or if there was any further assault he could not foresee. He wanted to be certain that the army was on the march, just as planned, that Edric could prepare the camp and provisions, that Reed could calm enough to return to Ser Jaime’s aid, that Sansa woke and was on the mend… Sansa.

Jon turned toward the sleeping figure beside him as he sighed. Why is it that a man’s conscience simply dissipates like candle light in stormwind when it comes to a woman’s kiss? And if it once so eagerly left him, why was it so keen to return once there was no way for him to turn back the time and undo the things he did while he had no conscience?

Dany shuffled on the bed, turned and for a moment Jon could see her in the starlight. Her face was calm, beautiful, admittedly, and peaceful. As if her skin was made of porcelain, her hair of melted silver, as if a sculptor spent a whole lifetime to perfect her every curve. And curves she had, Jon recalled, he studied them in great detail, each one of them. He could close his eyes and recall every inch of her body. He did so, for a moment, before conscience spoke up in protest.

Go away. He chuckled silently at talking to himself, or more like, his former self. He didn’t want to be that man anymore. They had this conversation before he drifted to sleep, he and his conscience just returning, because, why not return at the sight of a naked woman and the feeling of complete satisfaction as he leaned against the pillows listening as her breathing evened? She fell asleep, but Jon didn’t, for a long time after. No, Jon conversed with his honourable fool of a self-conscious former self, before he duly parted ways, telling off Jon Snow the boy. This is the world we live in, he recalled his words, we may as well make the most of it. We may as well count what little good there is and live. Just live, even if for a few hours between two fights, schemes and kills, we should live. He should live. After all, he was not Jon Snow anymore.

He wasn’t a bastard and he wasn’t Lord commander or King in the North. He wasn’t king of anything. He was no one really, and as liberating as that sounded, he was still someone. He was Jon Targaryen, and he commanded a dragon. He commanded twenty thousand men of the Golden Company, and he was the prince promised to defeat death itself. He was someone, he reminded himself once more. And the someone that he was, that man was quite important in the grand scheme of things. Jon Snow was a nobody. What were Reed’s words exactly? You were raised to want nothing in life, something like that. That’s not him. That’s Jon Snow the bastard. He was no bastard. He was the heir to the Iron Throne. He glanced at Dany again, soundly asleep beside him.

He was Jon Targaryen, and Jon Targaryen can do things that Jon Snow could never imagine of. Jon Targaryen could command the Golden Company. Jon Targaryen could defeat death. And he could win the love of a woman like Daenerys. And Sansa, the little voice of his conscience added.

Gods, what a mess. Perhaps conscience should’ve stayed for the night… but no. Conscience decided to abandon him, and there was no way to change that. He didn’t really miss conscience, not Jon Snow’s conscience. Jon Targaryen had a different kind of conscience. He wondered if he could even make sense of his thoughts now.

He slowly rose from the bed, gently setting aside the arm that rested on his waist until just now. He waited, but she didn’t move. Good, he didn’t want her to wake. He didn’t want conversation. As his bare feet reached the fur on the floor, his eyes found the long gash on his thigh in the starlight. It was healing well. It’ll leave a scar, like all the other cuts and bruises, those that bled and those that were unseen, but he didn’t care much. It no longer bothered him, if he recalled he could tell he wasn’t even limping anymore. So much for escaping the dead, the thought filled him with a certain confidence. Jon Targaryen was hard to kill.

He rose, feeling the cold breeze on his skin, shivering in his nakedness. There’s no way to find the scattered clothing, his eyes searched the dark room for something to cover himself. A blanket will do, on a chair right by the window. What is it with this fort and the Targaryens not bothering to put glass on windows. Didn’t they know that it’ll keep in the warmth? They didn’t feel the cold the way others did, Dany told him that much during supper. What an irony, Jon could feel the cold like any man. Why was it that he could not inherit such things with his Targaryen blood like not burning and not feeling the cold, it seemed unfair. It was unfair, to Jon Targaryen it was bluntly unfair.

He wrapped himself in the blanket before he sat in the chair, staring out to the field. Huts. It seemed to him that he was the only soul awake, as if even time took its rest. He began to wonder if all these people outside the stone walls knew what they escaped. If they were aware of the events that unfolded on the shores of the sea near Dragonstone, if they could even fathom the events that happened to the land they otherwise called home. It was a strange thought, the little voice of conscience once more wanting to be heard, it was their home. It was not Jon Targaryen’s home. Not anymore.

That’s not true though, is it? The North is a part of him. He’ll never stop fighting for it. The North is where his roots were. The North is HOME. No, the little voice told him, Sansa is home. Wherever she is, there is home.

Shut the fuck up, he wanted to yell. Sooner or later he will have to make a choice. But haven’t you just made a choice? Jon wasn’t sure. This thing, between a man and a woman, this is not easy. It’s hazy and confusing and complicated. Not the things he did, oh those were easy. How she made him feel was easy to embrace, and gods, she knew how to make him FEEL. How to make him want to immense himself in the craving for more, and more, she could play him like the bard plays his instrument, she could please him like he never even thought possible. Pleasure. It’s a powerful thing to a man, Jon thought, for once you feel it, you REALLY feel it, you will want more of it. He wanted more of it. He could go back to bed and wake her, and she would be willing, and he could feel once more what it’s like to be inside her, the warmth and the pleasure of it. It’s a double-edged sword, pleasure. It suddenly occurred to Jon, men may have come up with all kinds of weapons, swords and lances and bows with arrows to fight. Women need no such things. They have a weapon more powerful than any men could muster. They had it between their legs. Men need chains to tie someone, a woman merely need to open her legs, Jon thought sarcastically, for by the Gods, it’s more powerful than any chain he could imagine.

Stupid thoughts. From a mind still dazed from blackberry wine, sure the headache will follow tomorrow. It would follow either way, the little voice countered. A different kind of headache, one that is brought about the colossal mess he’s just created. It’s your fault, he told to what he perceived to be his conscience deep within. You’ve left me, and I did what ever I wanted. You did a lot. Aye.

He watched her as she laid motionlessly, until his mind cleared of the fog that were his thoughts. No, there’s no room in there for thoughts about the things they did to each other. There isn’t even room to ponder what he brought upon them by doing it. Not resisting. Or Was it he who started it? Jon couldn’t recall. It was so sudden, a mere look in her eyes, and conscience was gone, sailed away into the sunset on a sea of blueberry wine, and he was kissing her and stripping her and pressing her against the wall as he was taking her… He can’t claim to be innocent of it, if he was honest to himself. But did he want to? What does it even matter? Jon Targaryen does not need to explain himself. Jon Targaryen’s life was tied to the sleeping woman on the bed anyways. It mattered precious little that he took pleasure in it, even if he didn’t, his life would be hers. He gave his word. He may as well enjoy it, for however long life was.

He needed to focus. He needed to recall conscience for he needed conscience present, while he regained his focus. Jon Targaryen without conscience was a rather dreadful thing, past example showed. Jon chuckled. He had no regrets. He didn’t feel sorry for Harry Strickland, and he didn’t feel sorry for the Greyjoy scum either. They both earned it. They both wanted to harm those under his protection. To harm him, harm those he loved and kept in his heart. No, they deserved what they got.

His mind shifted from his mad conversation – was he going mad talking to himself? Who cares...

Greyjoy was an even more despicable scum than Strickland, Jon noted. What a piece of shit Theon’s uncle proved himself to be… Cersei Lannister surrounds herself with worthless scum, sends them against him one by one hoping for any outcome other than what she was getting? She must be the mad one, Jon thought, thinking him, Jon Targaryen so lowly that he can’t deal with men like these. Were they men even?

It was so easy to fool this one. Jon didn’t even need to try, though if he admitted to himself, the plan was already half baked when they arrived on Dragonstone. Yara Greyjoy expected an attack, so she hid her fleet between the rocks just north of the island, at first Jon and Dany thought her to be the enemy hiding so carefully, within easy reach of the harbour. They almost burned her fleet, her unusually shaped ships… turns out she stole them from Euron Greyjoy himself. It was a funny tale, as Theon explained how they rowed south night after night, stealing ships that harboured in Kings Landing, then sailed them around Dragonstone and hid them just north of the island, ready to use them against whomever came that weren’t friend.

Once Jon and Dany established that they rather figure out what is going on before burning ships that seemingly weren’t on the verge of attack, they landed. Ignore the looks that Jon received arriving atop Rhaegal, the king in the North they whispered not knowing he was no king. He was a Targaryen. He didn’t bother to educate them.

Once they established the reason why the ships were so carefully hidden, and shared their knowledge about an impending attack, it was rather easy. They knew the Iron Fleet will come, it’s a matter of time – and they didn’t have to wait long. Was it an hour? Two hours? Jon and Dany arrived just in time.

He chose the simplest plan he could think of. Jon asked Yara not to reveal her ships, not to confront Euron Greyjoy, at least not until Euron Greyjoy’s focus shifted to shooting down the dragons. It did require explanation, the woman was rough and burned for revenge, but she didn’t contest, not in Dany’s presence. And Euron Greyjoy, the fool that he was, simply sailed into Jon’s trap, the strip of water between the island and the seashore. Perhaps he thought he’ll merely take the harbour and that’s it, that there’ll be no one to oppose him. Of course he thought that, that’s what Cersei believed with the Dothraki gone. What little these two think of him, Jon Targaryen…

Jon and Dany attacked from behind, in the darkness, the ballistae fixed on those ships aiming forward were as good as useless against the two dragons. All they Ironborn could see was fire, and by the time they caught sight the dragons were always gone, swiftly rolling and rising to the skies, only to steeply dive in again for another round of destruction. Just when Euron Greyjoy finally managed to turn around to face them, half his fleet burning, the ships around him burning, that’s when Yara Greyjoy attacked.

The only time Jon thought this may not work was when Euron released the mast on his ship. What a ship, if he was honest he had to admit that he was in awe of it. Was, in past tense, for Rhaegal simply grabbed the mast as he flew by and tore it off. That was after Drogon did the same with Euron’s giant fucking crossbow. Then Yara and her men boarded Euron’s ship.

Jon and Dany merely watched as the man was finally taken captive. Oh he fought, tried what he could for a time, then jumped into the sea. Later Jon learned the significance of this, how Theon did the same when Euron captured Yara, making Theon feel rather redeemed seeing his uncle jumping all the same. They used a simple fishing net to catch him. What a sorry end, it still made Jon laugh, and he laughed aloud watching the scene atop Rhaegal’s back as it happened, as well. Once Euron was theirs, his men laid down their arms.

Jon watched as they duly lined up on the shore. He and Dany, still atop their rides, didn’t need to do anything almost. Their mere presence was enough. The men lined up, and duly proclaimed Yara Greyjoy Queen of the Iron Islands – if helped by the shriek of two dragons. Job well done, they were then led into the damp cells below. It was amusing, for there was no clear intention to actually imprison them but they were unfortunate enough to arrive last to the party on Dragonstone – any other kind of sleeping accommodation has already been taken, from the fort to the fields there was no space for them. So they had to spend their time on the Island in the damp cells below.

The rest of it was exactly how Jon imagined to be. First, Jon spent his day walking around the camps, meeting with the lords, sadly learning that lord Flint of Widow’s Watch has since passed and never made it to Dragonstone – albeit part of him was glad for the old man not to see what became of the proud North and the king he swore fealty to. By the evening Jon was broken and frustrated enough to deal in kind with Euron Greyjoy. But first, they had supper with Lord Tyrion and Varys – not a lord, or so he claims – and Jon watched. Ser Jorah was right, Tyrion didn’t seem to be anything but a dutiful servant. He enquired about the war, enjoyed hearing of their victories and at times offered advice and suggestions as to how to continue, discussed matters of the island, of supplies and provisions and brought several grievances of the people to his Queen’s attention. He didn’t speak against anyone, he didn’t question anyone. He didn’t question Jon. Varys was a completely different kind of servant, for he spoke extremely little. He had no suggestion or opinions to offer and mainly sat silently. But he watched, Jon could tell. Varys watched HIM. Varys’ only real emotion throughout supper was the surprised look when Jon told the guards to bring in Euron Greyjoy.

Then the show began, and Jon enjoyed it. He himself stood and offered the man a seat. Greyjoy questioned it, so Jon explained, why not have a trial while supper, after all he would not delay supper, and he’s had other plans afterwards. Greyjoy got the jist of it, the insult of not being important enough for Jon to spend his time. He began to call Jon ‘Bastard.’

Jon laughed at that, told him that he’s clearly unaware of who Jon is. No, Greyjoy said, he knows who Jon is, he’s the bastard who claims to be the heir to the Iron Throne. That got everyone’s attention except Jon’s who merely grinned. Some to and fro, and Greyjoy became rather annoyed with not being able to gain a reaction from Jon.

Then it was time. Jon merely shrugged a shoulder explaining, he can’t give two shits about men who think raping women and children is a deed worth his attention. But since that is what Greyjoy is accused of, perhaps he should begin to speak in his own defence before Jon finished the contents of the bowl in front of him. He showed the bowl to Greyjoy, it was almost empty.

Greyjoy wondered about the trial he was subject to, then demanded a trial by combat. He called it that, to Tyrion’s amusement. Once more Jon told him, he has no clue who Jon is. The answer? Jon’s the guy who needed a woman to save his sorry ass in the battle of the bastards. There’re no Vale knights to save him now, so let’s see if his Gods favour him. Greyjoy claims the drowned god favours him, Jon presumed – for he claimed he was the drowned god himself, causing a loud laughter around the table.

Jon duly finished his bowl of stew, then told Greyjoy that in truth he cannot grant his wish. Why… because he would kill Greyjoy, and while he’s asking for it, he really wasn’t Jon’s to kill. He was Yara’s. As far as Jon cloud tell, Yara Greyjoy warmed to him somewhat as the day went on. Theon whispered to Yara to agree, she was hesitating. Daenerys said, she chooses trial by combat. Tyrion reasoned, as they were on Dragonstone, it is actually Dany’s decision. Yara didn’t seem too glad to accept, but she didn’t speak against the Queen.

Greyjoy was rather loud proclaiming Jon could not kill the Kraken, for whatever imagined reasons he’s had. Jon was convinced by then that the man is half mad. Just as he took off his overcoat he said as much, asking Theon, who explained a story about Euron going mad in a storm, then cutting out the tongue of all his men so they couldn’t reveal a thing.

Then there was the matter that Greyjoy had no weapon to fight. Not an issue, Jon said, someone threw him a rusty old sword. Jon didn’t like that, he proclaimed he wants a fair fight, not to have the blue-eyed corpse of Euron Greyjoy coming after him demanding a rematch. Greyjoy didn’t get it, but everyone else did. Jon explained, there’s no such thing as death being finality anymore. Those who die don’t get buried or burned or whatever the Ironborn did to their dead anymore. Those who die merely enter their second life of service these days. They serve a different king, the Night King, and serve until all their flesh rots off their dead bones, without as much as a hint of free will. Jon said what he felt, that he’ll gladly deliver Euron’s blue eyed corpse into service when he returns to the mainland, he’s soon to meet with the King anyways.

Greyjoy claimed he saw one of them in Kings Landing. For the first time it occurred to Jon that the man grew somewhat frightened. Not enough to cower, not just yet, but he lost some of his cockiness. One ball of two. Jon meant for him to lose them both, the idea came to mind. Literally. He told Greyjoy what was coming, just to be fair and set the right expectation, he said.

They fought. For all Jon’s experience, the man was no match. While they fought, right there in the hall of Dragonstone, Jon began to wonder if he was really the greatest sword the North has ever seen, or merely this man was useless with a sword. He toyed with Greyjoy for a time, before declaring that it’s got boring, they better finish this quickly for he has other plans for his evening. Greyjoy attacked, and it was then that Jon duly made Greyjoy to Theon’s likeness, in that he sliced off whatever the man had between his legs. It wasn’t a clean cut, of course it wasn’t, he did it upwards merely as he turned to resume attack position. He glanced at Theon, who grinned. He didn’t see Theon with a smile that wide since they left Winterfell. Jon told Greyjoy not to worry, he won’t need his cock or his balls in the army of the dead.

Then he took an arm and apologised for that would’ve been needed in the army of the dead. It became boring, for real, soon Greyjoy was on his knees. Jon told him to beg. He wasn’t having any of that, insulting Jon instead. How he managed to do it he doesn’t even recall, but since Greyjoy spoke too much, Jon turned and introduced the edge of Blackfyre to his tongue. Told him he needs no tongue in the army of the dead, and he’s had more than enough use for it.

In the end, Jon merely held out Blackfyre in front of Euron Greyjoy. He told the man, here’s your trial by combat. You can live, with no balls, and no hand and no cock. The Ironborn have little affection for cripples and Yara will ensure you’ll live a long life on Pike. You’ll be the new Reek it seems. Or you can fall on this sword and die. He chose the latter.

When it was over, Jon’s eyes met those of Varys. The spider was truly shocked.  Tyrion laughed, he understood that this all wasn’t real. Jon merely wanted the man to cower, to make him suffer the humiliation, and congratulated Jon. Yara and Theon both enjoyed the show. But Varys remained unimpressed even after Jon explained with a rather cool head why it had to be this way. He ordered the guards to burn the body. He had no intention to give Euron Greyjoy a second life in the army of the dead either, it was a show, just a show.

Jon didn’t enjoy the rest of the evening and the conversation. Varys’ eyes were on him, if looks could strip a man off his skin he’d even been be stripped of that. He soon excused himself, and Dany did the same. Jon had no idea where he’s set to sleep, he didn’t enquire. He meant to go to the fields and find space in one of the huts, but Dany took him here. The rest is history, Jon thought, watching her shuffle on the bed. She raised her head, and Jon stood to return to bed. He still didn’t want conversation. He wanted warmth. Warmth of the furs, warmth of her skin, any kind of warmth. He didn’t care. He didn’t think of it, conscience was far away, immersed in the analysis of Jon’s behaviour this past day. He shuffled under the furs to a comfortable position, preparing himself for the next set of nightmares for the cloud of sleep was approaching, lifting him. He felt Daenerys shuffle close but didn’t move. He was there, and yet far away already. Perhaps no nightmare will come this time. His conscience didn’t protest.

*****

“One would think eunuchs still have use of a bed. To sleep.” Tyrion turned as Varys entered the chamber.

“I needed information more than sleep,” Varys declared with a sombre face. “What worth is sleep when we don’t know.”

“Don’t know what exactly,” Tyrion asked sleepily, refusing to open his eyes, as he pulled the fur on him.

“That the Queen will need a change of bedlinen on the morrow.”

He had to chuckle. “You needed a walk in the night to establish that,” he said, finally opening his eyes. “You could’ve asked me and save the hassle. If you had a cock, my friend, you would know yourself that this was rather obvious.”

“And you are happy for it.” Varys merely sat on his bed, looking at Tyrion as if the world has just ended and they were discussing the how-to going forward.

“Of course, I am happy for it,” he began to explain, “I am happy, in general.” Varys’ face showed no sign of emotion, no sign of understanding. He sighed before the forthcoming explanation. “My friend, we were certainly doomed, and then we were saved. It must be frustrating for my sweet sister, for she can’t seem to be able to kill me. And the Queen shares her bed with a man who is actually worthy of it. And he’s the heir. We don’t even need to care about the bedding anymore. Now we just need the wedding. Perfect, if you ask me, things are going perfectly as they should be.”

“He is the heir,” Varys pointed out in the monotone voice he reserved to big revelations. “Not she.”

“He resigned it,” Tyrion countered, annoyed at how the conversation began to wake him.

“And tell me, when he saves the world and rids us of night kings and dead men and Euron Greyjoy, why would the people of Westeros follow our Queen instead of him?”

“That’s easy,” Tyrion turned, his back against Varys. The conversation has just proven to be utterly pointless, not worth to literally lose sleep over. “Because he follows our Queen. His cock does at least, the rest is a matter of time. And now, I will sleep. Unless you hid a flask of wine and a lovely maiden behind your skirt, there’s no point in me discussing better bedtime activities, no matter whose activities they are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter reflects my state of mind and huge baskets of lemons (lots of lemonade drinking these past days for me) then Jon's but I kinda like sarcastic dark Jon, even if it's only in his thoughts and his inner arguments and confusion. I gave Euron the most gruesome crap death I could come up with in the situation. I wish they sent back his head to Cersei but that would be so out of character to Jon.  
> PS - chapter 50 - this is where the original story end was and I've not even began the real endgame lol


	51. Dragonstone II / II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: JONERYS!

If Jon had any illusions or expectations - mainly negative ones - about how life is to continue, the morning certainly outdid all of them. He tried to not expect anything, despite feeling the need to prepare himself to all kinds of arguments, and he tried not to hope for anything amicable. Yet his wake-up call, as Dany called it, was more than amicable. He could get used to this, he thought. The things she could do to him. When they were but boys, before they all left Winterfell and Robb died and Theon lost his identity as Jon perceived it, he often sat with Robb and Theon silently as they discoursed about their experiences. Jon never managed to convince himself to enjoy the company of Ros - that one time on his sixteenth nameday when Robb paid for it and Ros undressed in front of him and gods, she was beautiful, she was delicious, kisses by fire with smile and curves sculpted in the heavens... but Jon didn’t do it in the end so that one time didn’t really count. But he spent enough time listening to Theon’s boasting to Robb, to Robb’s hushed confessions to him, and so he knew what whores could do with their tongues and their fingers and when they moved their hips... and Jon thought Dany possibly outdid them all. At least when she finished and climbed off him that’s the first coherent thought that came to his mind. Conscience was far, far away - possibly still deep in analysis of Jon’s erratic, perhaps even mad behaviour the day before, and so he didn’t think anything of it, except one thing - he could wake like this every day. If this was what he gave his word to do, well then it wasn’t so bad after all. Except this was not all that he gave his word to do.

Looking at the grand scheme of things, it was actually quite little. Those moments when passion peaks, they pass quickly, and the fall back into reality comes way too swiftly. He watched her climb off the bed, wash herself, still wondering about the things she did to him. He told her as much, and she laughed. She had a beautiful laugh, too rare to be heard. It made Jon feel as if wars and Starks and Lannisters were long in the past, or perhaps in a different life altogether, there was no iron throne and no night king here - only them, in this bedchamber, casually preparing to begin a new day as if it was a day like thousands before it and thousands that will come after. 

It was not. He watched her dress, before he finally convinced himself to do the same - and that was all well, he washed and he found his own scattered clothing and dressed, still somewhat believing the illusion of it all. 

“Perhaps you ought to take it off,” Dany said, her voice kind, yet firm, but Jon truly, honestly didn’t understand what she was he referring to.

“I thought I’ve taken off everything,” he smiled, “I am but putting them back on?”

“The favour, Jon,” She nodded toward his wrist. “Sansa Stark’s favour.”

“How do you know it’s Sansa’s,” he asked, trying to keep the creeping frustration out of his mind. Of all the weird arguments he portrayed to himself this was the one that he never thought of. The ribbon was tied to his wrist for so long now. Most times he didn’t think of it when others were around, especially when she was around. Only when he was alone, when no one was looking, did he look at it, or so he thought. 

“I am no fool,” Dany declared, a forced smile on her lips. Jon wished she didn’t force it, it only made this whole conversation that much worse.

“Why should I take it off,” he asked, although just as he asked, he realised the answer. Women are curious things, they like to conquer and own, even a man, Jon thought. And if one owns, then no one else can have any part. He chuckled at the memory of Lady Catelyn long ago, when some southern lord visited with his family - most likely escorting their son to the Wall, many did that and stayed at Winterfell, and Jon couldn’t recall the details anymore. He only recalled when Robb told him the lady Catelyn hasn’t spoken to Lord Eddard in two days, and the servants say it is because the Lord was kind to one of them ladies. Jon wondered why the memory came to mind. He ought to focus. 

“Perhaps after last night you would,” Dany said, “after all it is from a woman other than me.”

“So you want me to take it off because Sansa made it,” Jon tried to put it into perspective.

“I’d want you to take it off even if someone else made it, Jon,” she explained, “it could be anyone, it doesn’t matter. We matter.”

“The way I see this,” Jon began, as he stopped in front of her, “I’ve not wed you. I’ve not made any fucking vows. You haven’t either.”

“Then what were you doing in my bed?” She wasn’t amused.

“Exactly what you wanted me to do, Dany,” he shrugged it off, “isn’t that why you brought me to your chamber?”

“Don’t try to tell me you were merely fulfilling your word, Jon Snow,” she hissed. Why do women have to be such jealous creatures, why do they have to take every word the worst way? Jon stepped closer, cupping his face in his palms.

“I say no such thing,” he said, hoping he sounded as kind as he possibly could, “I merely say it was not a wedding. Don’t make my decisions for me, I am perfectly capable of making them on my own.”

“That is why you wear a woman’s favour why you love another,” she said, slight sarcasm in her voice.

“No,” Jon took a step back, releasing her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand, Jon,” she seemed calmer to Jon now, her anger passed. Jon’s mind was racing, trying to find the words to describe how he felt about this all when he knew full well that he couldn’t even define it to himself yet.

“It’s part of me,” he said lowly, “a lot of things are, and it’s one of them. There are things I can’t change, Dany. I can give you what I can give you, and I am, but don’t ask me for what I cannot give.”

“She loves you,” Dany whispered, “does she not? And you love her for you wear that ribbon faithfully even when you’re in my bed.”

“I wish it was so simple,” Jon looked straight into her eyes, “and you’re wrong. You’re assuming the worst you can imagine, and you’re wrong. I wear it because I want to and that is all you need to know. And her... forgive me but that isn’t your business. I told you, don’t ask for more than what I can give.”

She turned away from him, proceeding to take her white fur cloak. The conversation was over. Jon wanted it to be over, but still it felt wrong, so very wrong. Why is it that when he speaks the truth, he only sows animosity? 

“Perhaps it’s best if I leave for the mainland straight away,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” She turned in an instant.

“Not what you think, again,” Jon wondered how long before his frustration got the better of him. “I decided last night to speak to Connington and his spymaster again. About the traitor. Best I get on with it straight away, before any trail goes cold now that we so obviously are after the man.”

“Or woman,” she snarled, almost.

“Aye, perhaps a woman,” Jon sat to pull on his boots. “In any case I mean to find him, or her, rather quickly.”

“I have matters to settle with my advisors so you go ahead,” she said nonchalantly, if not somewhat coldly. “See that you find the traitor, Jon Snow. I’ve had enough of Cersei Lannister’s plots.”

Jon stood with a cold, stern face.

“Haven’t you forgotten something, Dany?” He asked but she merely looked at him, clearly unaware of what he could be referring to.

“My name,” Jon hissed, “is Targaryen, the same as yours. See that you remember, Dany.” With that he turned and left the room, straight for the field and Rhaegal. He had enough of Dragonstone for a good while. He had enough of women, for even longer, he thought bitterly.

*****

“So he wants to wear the thing,” Tyrion said, not trying to hide his amusement at the topic. “Let him, what does it matter?”

“What does it matter?!” Dany hissed. “He is either mine, or hers. That’s the matter, and it’s a bit too late to swing back from being mine, don’t you think?”

“Imagine if every whore in Kings Landing thought the way you do,” Tyrion chuckled.

“And which of us are you calling a whore, Jon Snow or your Queen?” Dany wasn’t amused at all at the comparison, she felt only angered by it even more.

“Neither,” Tyrion laughed, “and, Targaryen. Not Snow.”

“Ahhhhh!” Dany jumped up from the table, and walked to the balcony.

“It does not matter, Your Grace,” Tyrion began to explain, seeing that his cheerful demeanour wasn’t helping the situation, “Because he’s left the North, and he’s done so with you. Think of it like a memento. Besides, there’s this thing about men, every man.”

“What thing?” Dany asked, turning toward her advisor.

“We don’t like to be told what to do,” Tyrion said. “We do things, and if we want to be pleasing to someone we’ll do things they want us to do, or things we know they would appreciate... or hope they would, in most cases. But if they tell us, then no, we won’t do the same things we would think of as nothing of importance if it was merely us figuring it out ourselves.”

“I don’t see the difference,” Dany said, much calmer than before.

“Because you’re a woman, your grace,” Tyrion smiled, “and women believe that a man needs to be told things. We have more instinct that women give us credit for, we merely like to hold on to our little mementos and snippets of freedom while we tie ourselves down anyways. He’s not yours and he’s not Sansa’s either, he has his own mind. It seems he prefers to use it instead of being told, so let him. He’ll come to his senses if he’s not pestered about it.”

“I wasn’t pestering,” she said lowly.

“You told him to take it off and then you elaborately discussed your view on the matter in order to convince him, that is pestering. Men don’t appreciate being pestered, your grace.”

Dany sighed. “It was much easier with Daario. Even with Drogo.”

“I haven’t had the fortune to meet the Khal,” Tyrion motioned for her to sit again as he spoke, “but you once told me that he refused to sail to Westeros. Then when he learned of an attempt on your life, he changed his mind. You pestered and he said no, and then he came to his senses. As for Daario... forgive me your grace, but you can’t compare. Daario Naharis was your doormat, not your man. Just a tool.”  
“And what is Jon Snow?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Definitely not a doormat,” Tyrion chuckled. “I would risk saying that perhaps he’s your equal but you wouldn’t like that.”

“He is NOT my equal,” Dany sat back on the chair, her face resolute. “I am the Queen. He is... I don’t know what he is, really, but certainly no king.”

“But you want a relationship,” Tyrion asked, “don’t you? You want him to fall for you?”

Dany sighed once more.

“You needn’t answer, I know you do,” Tyrion’s voice was kind, like a friend, a confidante. “You could demand things from him and he gave his word to oblige. Yet you demand nothing even though, if I may say, you tent toward demands by default. You want his appreciation, and you don’t give him orders. I saw how you are with him, you merely follow. You love him, your grace. You want him to love you.”

“But he doesn’t,” Dany whispered.

“And now the biggest loser in love is advising you how to change that,” Tyrion raised his cup of wine as if he was honouring a toast, before he took a sip. “Truthfully, I don’t think he knows, I don’t think he can. If I was raised a bastard and I went through years of Night Watch and dead men and dagger through the heart, only to be told that I am this so-called prince promised and I am the heir to the iron throne, while the same dead men are trying to kill me and everyone else... I don’t think he is capable of knowing how he feels. He’s changed, the boy I met wouldn’t have done to Euron Greyjoy what he did. Even the king in the North wouldn’t have. This war is getting to him.”

Dany allowed herself a slight smile. “I’m not hearing the advice in your words, Lord Tyrion.”

“Because there is none,” Tyrion leaned back on his chair, looking straight into her eyes. “He’s bound to you by his word, but push him too much and he’ll break it. Best to leave him be.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Dany didn’t like it one bit. “First, there’s obviously the matter of last night, and second, there’s the matter of defeating your sister. If we speak truly, I need Jon by my side when I defeat your sister.”

“You do,” Tyrion nodded. “He’s the heir, he’s from Westeros, and the people follow him. His support means a great deal. Though you could defeat my sweet sister without him, he’s but one man.”

“With an army of twenty thousand and thirty elephants, eight hundred direwolves... another eight thousand or so wolves from his other sellsword company, though I’m not sure they follow him these days... and he’s got the support of the North, that I am sure of.”

“And the Vale, The Riverlands... Perhaps the Reach.”

Dany raised an eyebrow. “You sound like Lord Reed.”

It was Tyrion’s time to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“At Greywater Watch, Lord Reed and I had a conversation,” Dany explained, “he said, if I take Jon by his word the North will not contend, and the Vale, the Riverlands will follow Sansa Stark. He said Sam Tarly would never support me... I should’ve listened you at the Blackwater Rush, I know that now.”

“We never spoke about this,” Tyrion said lowly, “you never asked.”

“I didn’t think I need to ask,” Dany pointed out somewhat harshly, “I thought this is why you and Varys are in my employment. To tell me these things. And yet Lord Reed and Ser Davos told me more about the people I mean to rule than you two.”

“I ask for your forgiveness,” Tyrion said apologetically. “It’s not that I’ve not thought of it. I didn’t want you to worry, I thought we shall see how it is after we defeated Cersei and decide on the best course. This said, you already found the best course, I believe, and it is the one I would advise you of.”

“Marry Jon,” Dany whispered.

“Exactly,” Tyrion’s confidence returned in an instant. “I spoke to some of those you defended at White Harbor. They sing your praises, beside their king. If it was you alone, they would merely dread you. But they adore him, and so they praise you instead. He’s the key.”

“I can’t have children,” Dany whispered, “you know that. Jon is the only Targaryen besides me, he can’t be bound to me, unless he has a second wife.”

“That is just as well,” Tyrion pointed out bemused, “because he’ll have to take one particular wife.”

“Martell.”

“Lord Reed told you?” Tyrion made a mental note to one day seek out Howland Reed. “Impressive, I thought the frog eaters only care about seaweed and mud and frogs.”

“That’s a cruel thing to say,” Dany hissed. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Greywater Watch... it was a wonder, I’ve never seen such beauty. And their people were perhaps the only people not resenting me. His wife made tapestries of dragons, I had one hung in my bedchamber. And now it’s all gone, burned to ashes thanks to this war.”

“I merely said how I thought before,” Tyrion excused himself, “and I accept that I was wrong. I was wrong about many things. I am happy to stand corrected. But I am not wrong about Jon, I do believe the best way is to wed him, and crown him. He’s a capable ruler, you have to admit that.”

“He’s quite capable,” Dany nodded. “Though I never imagined to have a king by my side. I don’t need a man to be able to rule.”

“No, you don’t,” Tyrion smiled, knowing full well that he was threading on thin ice, he had to choose his words wisely. “But in my opinion, there’s a difference, depending on the man. See for example, you chose one from the noble houses, you’ll likely be seen as weak, in need of a man and a name. But Jon doesn’t give you a name. I never thought I’ll say this, but he’s growing strong. He’s a good match, he’s cunning and has wisdom about him, and because he lacks interest in power and is already by your side, he wouldn’t make you seem weak. He doesn’t bring you lands or allies, not openly, but you two will defeat the great evil threatening Westeros. There’s no better story than that. Yes, a union with him looks far better than any other option, two Targaryens, both coming from nothing, united and invincible, and the two of you have irrefutable claim to the Iron Throne.”

“You mean he has a claim,” Dany pointed out.

“Not necessarily,” Tyrion began to explain. “When Robert Baratheon won, it was a conquest. Then he referred to his Targaryen blood to establish himself. I thought we’ll do something similar. It’s true that Jon is the heir, but you’re the conqueror, you’ll win the Iron Throne, not he. The two of you together, no one could find reason to question your right to rule.”

“If only he made up his mind,” Dany sighed. “But he doesn’t even want to talk about such things.”

“He’s leading armies in a war on two fronts,” Tyrion declared, “have some pity for the man, he’s but one man. He’s effectively at war with my sister now, and there’s still the dead to deal with. If I’m honest, you don’t need to do anything and he’ll sort this all for you, including the Vale and the Riverlands and the Reach. Perhaps even my sister, if Cersei angers him a little more.”

Dany took her cup and drank heartily. “I don’t want Jon to fight my battles for me, and I am not a patient person to wait for it to fall into my lap. I want to deal with Cersei myself. Perhaps even the dead, for Viserion, albeit apparently only Jon can kill the Night King so it’s out of the question. But I won’t hand over Cersei and I won’t step aside to watch him bring the kingdoms to the fold. I am the Queen. They ought to respect that, with or without Jon.”

Tyrion merely nodded. There was no point pushing it further, he duly expected this answer to come sooner or later. The Queen was headstrong and stubborn, full of awareness of her worth. In Tyrion’s mind, her worth was without question, her entitlement was just as unquestionable. If only she didn’t feel the need to voice it, though, it’d have been much easier to raise such matters earlier. Oh well, at least Lord Reed did the hard work for him, Tyrion thought.

“I want you to come to the mainland,” Dany said, shaking him from his thoughts.  
“Sansa Stark has a posse of advisors and Jon is advised by Lord Reed and Ser Davos. I need you to help me.”

“I don’t think Varys will enjoy being in Jon’s company,” Tyrion said with a grin. He himself was more than happy to join the fray. “Not that Varys enjoys being stuck here.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Dany asked restlessly, “and what does it matter? He’s my advisor, not Jon’s.”

“You’ll find him rather reluctant in matters relating to Jon,” Tyrion explained, “I must add, only because he keeps your best interest in mind. He’s weary of your alliance with Jon.”

“Because of his birthright.”

“Yes, because of his birthright, and more.” Tyrion swallowed, “because he sees how the people love Jon. It makes him weary that they would choose him over you.”

“But we’ve just established that there’s no such choice,” Dany smiled, “because there is no Jon without me, I’m the conqueror. And because I mean to make him king again. But Lord Varys may stay if he so wishes, someone has to oversee the island.”

“Meera Reed,” Tyrion said, “Meera Reed is overseeing the island. At least the northerners. I grew to like her, she’s quite pragmatic. She looks after them.”

“Well then,” Dany stood, chuckling to herself at the familiar surprise that a Reed, Howland Reed’s own daughter took it upon herself to hold together her people, “Lord Varys can choose. I don’t see why he’d choose the battlefield over the people, after all he’s the champion of the people, he keeps going on about serving the people. But if he so wishes, he may join. I certainly have use for him against your sister.” She nodded as she finished, and Tyrion jumped off his chair to stand respectfully while she left the hall.

It was an interesting breakfast, he thought. He’s now advisor in matters of love as well. And his queen had absolutely no clue about love, that became clear. Tyrion couldn’t find blame in that, between Khal Drogo and Daario Naharis, there wasn’t much to learn that’s for sure. But Tyrion? What did he know about love? He loved a whore who ended up fucked by half the Lannister garrison at Casterly Rock. Then he loved another whore who ended up fucked by Tywin Lannister himself. And now he was to advise about love a woman who could have any man - including himself, he didn’t even need to decide on that - but she chose the very man she couldn’t have easily. Jon Snow. Targaryen, not Snow. Perhaps that is why she was so smitten, because Jon Snow was as cold as if he was one of the army of the dead, when not boiling in rage cutting down Greyjoys at the dinner table. Tyrion shook his head. He still didn’t understand women, he amused himself.

*****

Jon watched as the spymaster leisurely took a chair, placed it in the middle of the tent and sat, legs spread out. He raised an eyebrow, at which Lysono merely looked confused. Jon Connington kicked his feet, and finally he sat straight.

“I want to know everything you know about the letters Cersei received.” Jon declared, not unlike an order.

“She does not receive them,” Lysono said grimly. “They are not sent to her. They are sent to some lords and keeps, I know not. They are then sent to her.”

“Who sends them?”

“To her?” Lysono looked somewhat amused.

“Let’s not pretend either of us a fool,” Jon leaned back in his chair, “some of those keeps are Lannister loyalists, some have no lords anymore and she garrisons them. Her men will forward the messages to her, but who writes the messages?”

“That, she doesn’t know either,” Lysono shook his head, his face turning grimmer by the word. “She doesn’t know where they came from.”

“That’s quite convenient,” Jon said, more to himself. “She’s aided by someone who knows our plans and movements, but keeps himself hidden from both of us.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” Lysono interrupted, startling Jon for a moment with the title. “The letters aren’t for her. They are sent to the people of Westeros. They keep repeating the same message, to join the fight against the dead.”

Jon thought about it for a moment, but it made no sense to him. “Setting aside the question why someone would send such messages without my knowledge, how could she know my movements from a mere rallying call?”

“It is how they are written, your grace,” Lysono explained. “I’ve seen them both, for there were two letters. The first said that the dead march on Winterfell and are not defeated after three battles, the people of the north having escaped to Dragonstone. It declared that Winterfell will fall and you need aid. The second was different. It called to arms to join the greatest army that Westeros ever saw, for the Northern and Targaryen forces left Dragonstone to unite at the Trident, if I recall correctly, and those who join them will be the heroes defeating the dead and placing Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne.”

Jon was stunned. “So they are sent in my name,” he summed it up after a long moment trying to come to terms with what he’s heard.

“Your Grace, they look to be in your support, yes.”

Jon looked at Jon Connington lengthily, wondering who could send such letters, and more importantly, why.

“Has anyone come to you?” He asked Connington. “To join the fight.”

“I doubt they would,” Connington shook his head. “I must admit, before we set out North we’ve had a little fun. They know us to be Lannister.”

Jon nodded. “That isn’t a disadvantage,” he said with a slight grin. “Let Cersei believe you’re marching home victorious. She’ll allow you close enough to Kings Landing for that.”

“There’s a different matter,” Ser Jaime spoke for the first time during this interrogation, “that of the two missing sergeants.”

“You’ve not found them?” Jon looked at Jaime before Connington again, who shook his head once more.

“We’ve found them in camp first night, then disappeared again. Said they were lost in the land, foraging. It is what we do, when we are on the march, it didn’t seem amiss. But Ser Jaime thinks it amiss, and they are away for days now. Them and about a dozen men.”

“You forage,” Jon repeated what he’s heard, his voice full of resentment. “Well, you forage no more. Not while I wield the sword, you will behave and leave the land and the people be. Am I understood?”

Connington nodded, standing straight in front of him, before he left the tent, to hand out the order. They could hear him shouting orders for men to form parties and recall everyone who’s not in camp.

“Ser Jaime you should’ve stopped this,” Jon said sternly.

“And I tried, I told Griff that if he recalls them, the missing men won’t have any excuse to be missing any longer,” Jaime explained. “He said only their leader can give such an order.”

“Well, their leader gave the order,” Jon hissed. “See to it that all of them return to camp by nightfall. Send Connington back, would you?”

Jaime stood and nodded, padding the spymaster’s back on his way out, to join him.

Jon sat alone for a while. It was a welcomed break, trying to make sense of what was happening was much easier by himself. And to be honest, he craved to be alone. He even wondered what if they flew away instead of landing and just be alone, just disappear. He couldn’t name anything that was in order, anything that proceeded well, everything was a mess. He constantly felt the urge today to run away from it all.

Perhaps this was nothing. A few men eager for booty in time of war. Perhaps that was all, Jon told himself. Still, they better return to camp, for he didn’t need another treachery to deal with. His eager supporter was more than enough. Jon wondered about it. If it was Sansa, or Arya, or Sam - they would just as well discuss with him beforehand, he thought, or hoped that they would. Lord Reed and Ser Davos definitely would. He could see no reason why anyone from the North would decide to go behind his back and write messages trying to rally the south to his aid. Calling him Aegon... he never used that name. Even as he took to using the name of his father, he kept the name Lord Eddard gave him. He mentioned his birth name only once, to the sergeants of the Golden Company. Perhaps they wrote the letters.

Perhaps they didn’t like to be sent on the march against him? It’s absurd, they had no clue who Jon was before Jon revealed his identity to them, and by then the letters were long sent. Perhaps it didn’t matter what name was used, perhaps the writer mentioned the name merely as it was his birth name. Yes, that’s a possibility - calling him Jon would get Jon closer to identifying the traitor. Would it, tho? Everyone called him Jon, nobody called him Aegon, not even Daenerys who had the most reason to, in Jon’s eyes.

He didn’t seem to get closer to who wrote those gods damned letters. Perhaps they were never designed to reveal his movements, and the writer was merely stupid enough to disclose without realising what he was doing. Now that would be a good joke on him, Jon thought, someone so eager to support him that they give away his plans... who could be that stupid? No one, most likely.

No, it wasn’t stupidity. The letters were sent to the south, none in the North knew of them. Though that may be because the North was evacuated a long time ago... but even Greywater Watch hasn’t received any letters. Whomever wrote them didn’t see the need to involve the northern lords and keeps, only the south. 

The south, where Cersei is… it’s not that the writer disclosed his movements out of sheer stupidity, Jon realised with a sigh, it’s that the writer used support for him as a cover to inform the south of his movements, he was certain now. Which meant that whomever wrote the letters was not in support of him, the writer intended to let Cersei know of his lengthy war and his people on Dragonstone, unprotected. Jon was right back where he started with this, he knew, and he was no smarter for it.

Jon Connington entered the tent.

“I apologise for the lack of information,” he said lowly, “and for the foraging.”

“No you’re not,” Jon looked up, “not for the latter. Ser Jaime tells me he gave the same order, and you refused.”

“I refused because I prefer to keep my head,” Connington said firmly, “and because you don’t need mutineers, and you want the Lannisters alive as well.”

“Is it so troublesome to follow Ser Jaime?”

“Not in the slightest,” Connington grinned, “He and I have history, your grace. But neither of us has the authority to order an end to our way of life. Only you do, and if I may add, we’ve merely recalled the men – I’d rather they hear of the finality of this from you, for they won’t believe me, or Ser Jaime.”

“It can’t be easy leading twenty thousand,” Jon pondered aloud.

“Not with this lot, it isn’t,” Connington motioned toward the spymaster’s chair and Jon nodded for him to sit. “They aren’t bad, it’s just… it’s how we always were, they always were. They know no other way, and there is a lot of willingness to kill in an army of twenty thousand.”

Jon leaned back in his chair, studying the man in front of him. Lord Reed was right, if he hadn’t shaved his head and if his hair didn’t begin to turn white, he’d look a lot like Tormund. For a short moment Jon felt the acute longing for his friend. Tormund surely would have a couple ideas about all Jon’s problems, he had that about him, seeing things plainly and declaring them just as plainly as he saw them. He brushed the thoughts aside. He needed to focus.

“Tell me true,” he began, “what do you think about these letters, Lord Connington?”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Connington allowed a slight apologetic smile, “it’s just Griff. I’m no Lord, not anymore, and no one calls me by that name.”

“Only if you disperse with the constant ‘your grace’ this and ‘your grace’ that,” Jon smiled, “plainly, it’s annoying me. I’ve got a name, it’s Jon.”

“You don’t use your birth name?”

Jon though about it for a moment, the strange coincidence of how he just wondered about his birth name in those letters… and Connington – Griff - didn’t know yet that he never used it? He sighed, he was becoming paranoid, he thought.

“I was raised by Lord Eddard Stark, and he gave me a name,” Jon explained. “One can’t be told, your name is this not that, and from that day discard the name he’s always known. I can’t, not for Lord Eddard’s memory. He was the most honourable man, and he lived his life in a lie for my sake.”

Griff nodded in understanding. Jon wondered what went through the man’s mind in the long moment of silence that followed.

“The letters are not in your support, that is what I think,” Griff declared then, “I think they are meant to do what they do, sent to southern houses knowing full well that there’ll be a few who’ll forward to the mad Queen, like you said. Forgive me, we got used to call her that. After all she blew up the fucking sept, if the rumours are true.”

“I hope you don’t call her that in front of Ser Jaime,” Jon chuckled.

“He doesn’t mind,” Griff grinned, “That is why I think the rumours are true. She blew up the sept and all the septons and septas and I hear the whole of House Tyrell with them. But those letters, they are meant to reach the mad queen. I am sure of it. Sadly I can’t tell you who writes them for you have a traitor in your camp.”

“I know that,” Jon stood and began pacing around, “the question is, in which camp. Is it a northerner or is it one of Dany’s…”

“Isn’t that the same camp?” Griff looked to Jon as if the man began to study him, wanting to look through him.

“It is the same camp,” he declared firmly, “for me. But men have their own agendas everywhere. There is no man – or woman – without an agenda of their own.”

“There are those who want the Northern independence, and even some who think it’d be better off being part of the Seven Kingdoms. Needless to say they don’t imagine that under Dany’s rule, but mine, and that pits them against those who believe Dany has the right to rule, and I should’ve never revealed who I was – or better, that I should perish in this war, or the next.” Jon thought aloud while explaining himself, not seeing any need to add that he stepped aside already in support of Daenerys which complicated this even further, as he saw it.

“Ser Jaime is right about you,” Griff said then, “you are smart. Now the question is, how to find the man responsible.”

“Aye, that’s been the question all along,” Jon grinned. “See, Ever since you knelt before me, I am looking for my traitor and I’m not yet closer to him than the moment I learned of the treachery. Perhaps I’m not as smart as you think me to be.”

“Perhaps it only needs time,” Griff said then. “Until we told you, you were oblivious to it and two letters were sent. Now we told you, and you are looking for a traitor. This means the traitor has to thread carefully, and men who fear of being discovered make mistakes, sooner or later.”

Jon thought about it for a moment. It was true, so true. “I want you to find your missing men, Griff, and I want you put them in chains until my return. And I want you to shoot down every fucking raven that leaves this camp, from now on there’ll be no ravens and no messages to anyone.”

“We don’t have ravens, Jon,” Griff chuckled. “Who would we send messages to? We only interact with the client, and that’s always in person.”

Jon nodded, wondering about what he’s heard. He needed more time alone to put this puzzle together, he thought. Perhaps the flight back to the northern camp, short as it may be, will suffice. He couldn’t have put two and two together for his life anymore, he felt.

He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about my father, Griff.”

The man’s eyes lit up, as he swiftly produced the little bundle from his pocket above his heart, the letters tied together neatly with a string. He untied it now and gave the bundle to Jon, with a big happy smile on his face as he began to talk. As Jon read, studied the orderly letters, he was showered with tales of Rhaegar Targaryen. Griff truly loved his father, Jon soon realised, Griff looked up to his father. After a while he just sat and listened, laughed at the funny tales and pondered on the more gripping ones. Griff painted a picture of Rhaegar Targaryen that Jon could’ve never imagined, and for the first time since he learned of his heritage Jon felt that he had a father again, a father to be proud of and eager to bear the name of. He sat there for hours with Griff, they saw to the bottom of two wine flasks between them, Jon appreciating and longing more and more for the father he’s never had the chance to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer breaks - in effectively juggling two jobs besides writing, at the moment, that’s the reason of the second long break - I can’t write regularly atm... 😞
> 
> Also sorry for the typos - I’ll go through it later, my iPhone doesn’t even like “Jon” (replaces to “Job” hahah) and doesn’t like past tense either, and even Word on my phone refuses to include any spellcheck. It’s late now, I wanted the chapter out, I’ll correct and spelling mistakes and typos tomorrow 😉


	52. Seagard

Cersei unrolled the scroll and read the small parchment once more. She’s read it a dozen times by now. That bastard… oh, he’s not a bastard. So it is true, Rhaegar managed to pump this little devil into his Stark bitch and even wed her. What has the world come to. At least the Targaryen girl was no longer a claimant, Cersei thought, Daenerys Targaryen has no claim whatsoever while the bastard lives… She chuckled at that. How long before she turns against him?

“The union of Targaryen is stronger than ever,” she read out loud. She won’t turn on him. The bitch opened her legs, and they unite their claim against her. As if she needed any more troubles.

“Heads roll away in the dirt, heads of men wearing gold and men wearing salt-soaked leather, no beasts and no ships can halt the ancient sword of Targaryen… Whomever writes these lovely letters to us is definitely one eloquent man,” Cersei said. Of course she understood. Strickland and Euron Greyjoy have both been defeated. Perhaps their heads literally rolled away in the dirt, but certainly, if they did, it was not by the hands of the bitch. No, this was the bastard’s doing.

“The ancient sword of Targaryen? Now that is a title I’ve not yet heard to describe a usurper,” she smirked.

“Blackfyre,” she heard and turned toward the man who spoke, “The Targaryen boy wields Blackfire. That is why the company turned, your grace, the company follows the sword of Bittersteel.”

Cersei looked through the parchment. There it is, “Twenty thousand turn and look to the south.” Well, my little informant, thank you for your service, she thought, but this time, I am ahead of you, little bird.

“Little bird,” she said out loud, “The first letter said, this bird sings a song, or something similar. Sansa Stark was called Little Bird here. And Lord Varys used to call his spies Little Birds. You have them Little Birds now, don’t you?”

“It is not one of mine who sends them, your grace,” Qyburn said apologetically, “I went to great lengths to enquire and find the author of these letters, but I’ve found no trace. The only trace I found is that one came from Pentos.”

“Pentos,” Cersei looked at her Hand for a moment in bewilderment before she burst out laughing. “Pentos! Who in the seven hells would do this in Pentos!”

She looked around, her Hand, the men in front of her. Their leader looked somewhat surprised, she thought. It didn’t matter. The letters aided her, up to a point, whomever sent them was not her immediate concern for an enemy, at the least.

“When will it be done?” She hissed.

“When they next fight, your grace,” the surprised man bowed as he answered.

“Your gift promised,” Cersei said, slight grin forming in the corner of her mouth at the thought, “Alive and undamaged.”

“Alive, yes,” the man grinned, “Can’t promise undamaged, your grace. It is risky business, and we all ought to have some fun after all, I hope you would not mind.”

“No, I would not, but deliver intact,” Cersei declared, “Your gift, intact. You may leave.”

The man bowed once more and rushed out, the others following until only Qyburn and the Mountain remained. Cersei glanced at the Mountain. It seemed to her that his skin under the helmet turned darker and darker blue and black by the day. And he smelled, too. He was certainly rotting. Perhaps this is what the bastard fought against, she thought. Tens of thousands of rotting corpses like the Mountain. She liked the thought.

“Call for a council of the Lords,” she ordered as she turned back towards Qyburn. She didn’t look at her Hand, merely waved her hand before resting them on the balcony. She looked at the city below. Her city. Her capitol of her kingdom. SEVEN KINGDOMS.

“Your grace, there’ll be an attack on the city soon enough,” she could hear Qyburn. The man could be really annoying sometimes, she thought. Slow. Slow annoyed her. She wondered more often lately, whether Qyburn’s appointment was wise. The Hand promised to outsmart Daenerys, and he didn’t, Jon Snow’s Hand of a smuggler outsmarted them all so easily that it still stung whenever Cersei thought of it. Qyburn declared Varys’ little birds to be his, and Cersei didn’t see much result of that either, not since the sept blew up. Did Qyburn truly have them, was it merely lack of information to convey? The North was on the move, harder to spy on – as hard as a vast army can be out on the field – and the reports from Dragonstone about petty northern bickering and food rations were all the same. She asked Qyburn to find Quentyn Martell in Essos, and she received no answer as of yet. She asked him to learn of the situation in the Reach, and there was no answer yet. She asked him to find Randyll Tarly’s surviving son, and again, there was no answer yet. How was she supposed to hold on to the Reach when she knew nothing?

“Yes, which is why I order a council to be held,” she hissed. “Call upon all banners of the crown, I want them all here in two days’ time. I don’t care how they make it, make sure they bring sufficient force to protect themselves from each other for mine are on the field.”

“Protect themselves?”

“Yes, you fool,” Cersei rolled her eyes. “Do you believe that Redwyne is fast friends with Tarly, for example? Call upon them all and remind them of their allegiance to the Crown. No excuse to be absent.”

“If I may ask, what is our plan, your grace,” Qyburn asked.

“You may,” she said, “but it does not mean an answer. Not just yet, we’ll discuss in due course.”

“And what about the attack on the city, your grace?”

“It won’t be in the next two days, surely,” she shrugged it off, “Besides, we are well prepared, remember?”

*****

“Lord Reed,” Sam jumped from his little stool by the pint-sized table that the Lannisters so kindly donated to him. He sighed at the sight in the corner of his eyes that the pages of his book began to turn as he released them in his sudden motion.

“I wouldn’t think I am so scary, Sam” Reed smiled a wide smile, “Enough to startle you this much.”

“I am merely surprised, Lord Reed,” Sam said honestly. “And, I congratulate you. For your naming Hand, I mean.”

“That is why I came, Sam,” Reed motioned towards Sam’s camp bed and Sam rushed to make order enough for the man to sit, before ushering him to do so. “I don’t mean to hear your congratulations – I came to talk.”

“Ohhh,” Sam fell back on the little stool. “I am not sure what there is to talk about, Lord Reed. I am not of the North.”

“That is why I need to speak with you, Sam”, Reed was kind, Sam thought, possibly the kindest of them all. “I would like to find out some things, if that is all right with you. Firstly, if you had the chance to write to your mother while at Winterfell.”

Sam wondered about the question for a moment. Was it not Reed who advised him to write to his mother? When they arrived at Winterfell and he had for the first time some alone-time to think about it all, what happened, what the Dragon Queen did, it was Lord Reed who came to speak to him about it. Not Edd, and not even Jon. Sam liked and even trusted Lord Reed ever since. Of course, he would come to him again, now that he is once more in the same place and once more without having to advise Jon, and see to it that Sam coped, he thought.

“I did,” he said then, “I wrote to her about what happened, that the Dragon Queen… you know. I wrote to her that I am safe, that Gilly and Little Sam left for Dragonstone, that Jon hasn’t lost many men, but the war is ongoing. I hope I didn’t write of anything that I shouldn’t have?”

“No, Sam, you did not,” Reed gave him another wide smile. “Did you receive response?”

Sam looked down on his hands in his lap, knowing full well that his posture once more gave away his answer before he said it. “I did,” he whispered, “It wasn’t good. Mother wrote about my father, that he was promised to be named Lord Paramount if he helped Queen Cersei defeat the Tyrells and the Dragon Queen, and that she begged for my brother to stay behind. My brother you see, he was father’s favourite, and he followed father everywhere. Mother wrote that there were many letters and visits from the Lords, and they all named father traitor. They even told her she should be driven to exile, Lord Reed. My mother and sister! But in the end, she writes, they spoke to her and settled that whatever my father did, burning him alive as prisoner was no justice for it. That my mother had nothing to do with it. She also asked for me to return home and speak to the Lords.”

“Speak to the Lords?”

“Yes, she wanted me to assure them that House Tarly is not a traitorous house and father was merely misled, those are her words. Though, knowing my mother, the words don’t begin to describe all the things happening… She’d rather spare me, I know it. She also wrote that they are well. Some of the men stayed at Horn Hill to protect them, loyal men.”

Reed leaned forward, resting on his one elbow on his knee as he began to think aloud, “assure the lords of the Reach that your house is not traitorous… your mother asks you to go home and swear fealty.”

“I thought so, my lord, either that, or to take control of Horn Hill,” Sam said lowly.

“And now you probably wonder how you could, when all you knew was that your father never wanted you to,” once more, Howland Reed’s voice warmed Sam’s heart despite the sharp edge of his words.

“It is not that,” Sam said, “I never wanted to be Lord. I used to tell my father, name Dickon the heir and send me to the Citadel – I wanted to be a maester. And seeing that maesters cannot hold land or titles, I thought it resolved the problem of me… well, I am a little chubby. I am quite bad with the sword, too. I understand, Lord Reed, I wasn’t like Dickon – he was everything my father’s heir should be.”

“No he was not, Sam,” Reed smiled kindly, “He was not the first-born son. And, if you don’t mind me pointing out, he also wasn’t the smart son either. After all, he followed your father like a pup, even to his death.”

“He was good, Dickon,” Sam declared somewhat sensitively, “He didn’t deserve to die. Even the Dragon Queen said so.”

“Yes, he was good, I am sure of it, but nobody is perfect, Sam,” Reed explained himself, “you are not the tall and lean and broad-shouldered son that your father wanted. Does that make you less good? No, it does not. Your brother had the looks of it, but it seems to me that you have the brains.”

Sam chuckled at that. “If only my father valued the brain,” he murmured. “In any case, it’s just me left now.”

“What will you do, Sam?”

“I…” Sam paused for a moment, “I don’t know. If I returned home, I’ll never be a maester – but I’ll never be a maester anyways, and I have to provide for Gilly and Little Sam and the baby… if I returned home, I could do that, and they would grow up educated, they would have no want. But I don’t think I like the notion of me being Lord of Horn Hill.”

“Though that is what you are,” Reed pointed out.

“I am a sworn brother of the Nights Watch,” Sam argued, “I swore to hold no lands and titles.”

“And father no sons,” Reed laughed.

“Yes, well,” Sam felt caught in the conundrum he’s created, “I suppose I’ve not kept all of them vows equally faithfully, that is true.”

“There is no Nights Watch anymore,” Reed said softly, “And once the war is over, my Queen will declare it disbanded. There’ll be no need for it, and she’s not willing to barricade the wildlings to the North.”

“That is very… Jon,” Sam smiled, “He would do such a thing.”

“I think that is why my Queen wants to do it,” Reed reasoned, “Because she knows that Jon would, as well. She’s said she’s heard many tales of how hard life was at Castle Black, she doesn’t see it fit to send orphans and bastards to the Wall and out of sight, for the sins of their parents, or their lack of parents. That’s how she’s said it.”

“What about the rapists and the murderers,” Sam pondered.

“From what I’ve heard their vows didn’t make them good, either, Lord Commander Mormont could testify to that,” Reed said sternly.

“If the Queen abolishes the Nights Watch, then my vows will mean nothing,” Sam added.

“And besides you there’s not even a dozen of Watchmen left, Sam, there’s no point in keeping it. We defeat the dead, so the freefolk can return home if they so wish, or stay if that is their preference, and that will be the end of it.”

“And I can return to Horn Hill, without becoming disgraced,” Sam thought aloud.

“Only if you finally wed that girl, Sam,” Reed laughed, and Sam laughed with him, before Reed’s face turned more serious.

“I need to ask you about other things, if you don’t mind,” he said lowly.

“Of course,” Sam rushed to assure, “If I can be of any help…”

“Perhaps,” Reed sat up straight, “I mean to ask you about the Reach itself. About harvests and granaries and the like.”

“Mother wrote that the Lannisters plundered the grain stores…”

“All the grain stores in the Reach?” Reed was not surprised, but he needed to learn more.

“Of course not,” Sam declared, “Some of the main houses were in fact left untouched. The Lannisters don’t dare to oppose the Hightowers of Oldtown, because everyone fears that there are necromancers among them. At least that is the rumour. They plundered Redwyne lands, Mother wrote that Redwyne lamented about it lengthily, and some others. But not ours, they left our people, and those that were in support of my father.”

“Your father must’ve divided the Reach,” Reed said as a matter of fact.

“I know not the extent of it,” Sam whispered, “But from mother’s letter, it doesn’t seem too amicable. I am quite ashamed of it, really. MY father always said that he is an honourable man, and he turned on his liege and attacked Highgarden.”

“Lust for power when met with opportunity can bring out the worst in all of us, Sam,” Reed said reassuringly, “Don’t lament on it too much, it was a grave mistake but a mistake, you know it. You won’t make it. That is, if you decide to take the lordship.”

“If I may ask,” Sam swallowed, “Why are you asking about this, Lord Reed?”

Reed smiled, “Of course you may, and I would tell you anyways.” He took a deep breath, “Between us, two friends.” Sam swiftly nodded.

“The North has no reserves for winter, Sam, whatever is left is in keeps far in the west that were untouched. White Harbor had vast grain stores burned, the glass gardens at Winterfell are destroyed, so are the granaries. There’s no supply line to open with White Harbor gone. We may win the war, but the next one will be against Winter itself, and we are not prepared. So, I wanted to find out what your situation is, for my Queen. If you become Lord of Horn Hill, my Queen may petition you for aid.”

“I wouldn’t hesitate, Lord Reed, you must know that…”

“And you must know this,” Reed interrupted, “Aiding the North will likely not win you any favours with the next Queen you mean to obey. It may even be viewed as treason, Sam.”

“We don’t know if she’ll be Queen,” Sam said hesitantly.

“Truth now,” Reed’s face was stern, “We know that Daenerys will be Queen, she has armies and dragons and her life’s goal is to sit on the Iron Throne, she won’t stop until she takes it.”

“But Jon is the heir, not she.”

“Jon stepped aside, Sam, he gave his word,” Reed explained, “And from all I know, he means to keep it. They get along well enough, it would take nothing short of a disaster to make Jon change his mind.”

Sam sighed at that, “He NEVER goes back on his word.”

“No, he does not,” Reed nodded, “And he’s also sworn to protect my Queen, just as well as to fight for the North no matter the odds, so I’m told. He declared he’ll never stop fighting for it. Which is why I dare to seek you out, if helping us gets you into trouble down the line, Jon would stand for you and us. You are his last remaining friend, Sam. It means something to him.”

“Something,” Sam said lowly, “He’s way too busy with wars and Queens lately to have time for friends.”

“That is true just as much to Ser Davos and myself, as it is to you. Was it I stuck in a different camp from Jon, I’d have just as little of his time, and when I have his time, it’s about them wars and Queens. And sellswords.”

“Lord Edric was planning to put Jon on the throne, was he not?”

“He wasn’t planning anything,” Reed grinned, “He exploded in anger, shuffled around back and forth and then fizzled out, and it seems to me that there’s nothing Edric could do.”

“Except fight the unsullied.”

“With his 8000 men left?” Reed chuckled at the thought, “There’s about 24000 Dothraki in the southern camp, Sam, not just the unsullied. Edric is outnumbered 4 to 1.”

“Which is why he wanted to know if I would support Jon,” Sam added, and Reed nodded in agreement.

“I would support Jon,” Sam declared then, “But I am not what Lord Edric thinks me to be. I don’t command the Reach, my father never did, and he burned alive for wanting to. There are others much more powerful than my father ever was, I can’t understand why the Lannisters turned him and not Hightower, for example.”

“Perhaps they were afraid of the necromancers?” Reed laughed, and Sam joined in.

“I will write to my mother,” he declared then, “I will ask her to begin preparing provisions, and ready them for shipment by sea. That seems to be the easiest? When I return home, we can begin shipping grain and livestock, too, perhaps.”

“Grain mainly, Sam,” Reed smiled, “There’s plenty of fish in the Shivering Sea, we won’t lack meat for a while, but we have no grain. And, you’re smart not using the Kingsroad.”

“There’ll be war in the South,” Sam explained, “shipments would have to go through armies and battlefields, they would never reach Winterfell. I’ll also write to my mother about the war coming.”

“What will you write about that,” Reed raised an eyebrow, “If I may ask…”

“That I do not side with the Dragon Queen,” Sam declared, “No matter what Jon does, I have not given my word to fight for her and I never will.”

“So, you’ll be Lord of Horn Hill then,” Reed stood, smiling despite Sam’s last comment.

“It looks like it,” Sam said as he stood as well, “For I cannot send shipments of grain if I am not the Lord, and I cannot ask whatever house would listen to me to do the same, if I am no Lord. I can’t promise anyone will listen to me, but I can try. It costs nothing to try.”

“And Gilly and Little Sam and the baby will have a home,” Reed said with smile as wide as he began with. “Thank you, Sam. I wasn’t hoping for your agreement, merely to discuss, and I appreciate your help. The Queen will appreciate your help. The North Remembers. Though, I must also make you remember that the Iron Islands is in your path towards the North.”

“It is…” Sam pondered. “I must think of it.”

“And I must ask the Queen to seek agreement with Theon Greyjoy.” Sam’s eyes lit up at hearing that.

“If your Queen could ensure we are not attacked,” he pointed out, “But aren’t the Greyjoys in support of Daenerys?”

Reed sighed, “Welcome to politics, Sam, Lord of Horn Hill,” he said. “I find them the reliable source of a constant headache.”

“Lord Reed,” Sam looked hesitant, looking down on his boots, “Could I perhaps leave the camp? Who rules in this camp?”

“As of now, my Queen does,” Reed said stunned, “And you are definitely not a prisoner. Though there’s a second camp south with Jaime Lannister in command, so I am not sure how you could leave.”

“I’ll figure it out, I am sure,” Sam said. “In truth, I am of no use here anymore. The dead are following I am certain of it, and there’ll be a battle soon. It is perhaps better if I set out to arrange everything for when the battle is won.”

Reed nodded. “I shall write to you at Horn Hill, Sam,” he said, offering his hand, and Sam shook it. As he sat back watching Reed leave, watching the flap of the tent settle once more, he began to wonder what he’s done.

He’s agreed to supply the North so the people they fought for can survive. That is all well, but he’s had no authority to agree. Who knows why Mother wanted him to return home with haste, and if he cannot arrange it, and Reed and Queen Sansa depends on it, they’ll be left even worse than they are now.

No, he had to arrange it. But how? They had no port. The closest port to Horn Hill is Old Town. Sam was certain that the maesters wouldn’t welcome him back to Horn Hill – albeit, for all Sam knew they never noticed the books missing, either. It’s not like they noticed anything from what was going on outside the Citadel. But Hightower was a different case. Hightower didn’t side with Tarly, of that Sam was certain. Which means that Lord Leyton won’t be too keen to hear Sam out. Perhaps Ser Baelor would hear him out. Yes, he could stop by Old Town, and perhaps seek an audience, perhaps Humfrey will help. What are childhood friends for if not to help?

He began to hastily throw his things into a saddle bag. He had to leave promptly, he had to travel swiftly, he thought. There are only days, surely no more than a fortnight until the battle at the God’s Eye. He must leave today, for they will march tomorrow and Seagard will no longer be an option – and all the ports will be Lannisters, he won’t be able to sail. His mind was racing in panic. What to do with the books?!

He hastily scribbled a note to Lord Reed, to take care of the books. He still meant to one day return them to the Citadel. How will he sail? There shouldn’t be a single soul at Seagard now. Sam stopped mid-motion. Gods, this isn’t really planned well, is it? He rushed out of the tent. He had to find Ser Davos.

In little more than an hour later, Sam and Ser Davos were both on horses, nodding their goodbyes to Lord Reed. And the Queen in the North. As they turned, Sam wondered about his new mission. It felt good to be useful once more. The Queen thanked him appreciatively for trying, noting that she understood Sam may fail. Promising her help with the Greyjoys, noting she cannot promise she’ll succeed, Theon Greyjoy didn’t rule the Iron Islands, his sister did.

Sam felt the weight of his mission, not only because of what it meant – people now driven from their homes to survive the winter after their lands devastated by the war – but also, how hard it seemed to be. The more he thought about it, the more impossible it felt. He and Ser Davos will sail to Old Town promptly. Ser Davos insisted to join him, and based on what Sam’s heard, the old knight was most suitable for the task ahead. He convinced people to join Jon against the Boltons, and he won the Lannister and Targaryen alliance at the summit in Kings Landing. Ser Davos’ help was invaluable, for Sam didn’t particularly feel like an eloquent man, or one that should be listened to, to be exact.

Who was he anyways? Lord Edric thought him to be a quite important Lord, perhaps the future Paramount, the way he spoke to Sam gave it away. But Sam was none of those things. He was a fat coward. That’s what he was, to be honest, he thought bitterly. But he also killed a white walker and a thenn. Perhaps he wasn’t as much a coward as he believed himself to be?

All in all, they should reach Old Town in a few days and he’ll see if Humfrey is there, that his old friend arranges an audience with his father. Or brother. If only they could convince Hightower to join them, the port of Old Town would be perfect to assist, and Hightower is a noble house, the name demands respect, if not only a little dread of necromancers. Sam didn’t fear necromancers. He and Humfrey used to laugh about it when they were boys scouring books about necromancers and playing tricks on the kitchen folk whenever Humfrey visited Horn Hill. He’s a grown man now, just like Sam, and Sam wondered what became of him. He spent so much time at Horn Hill, he loved there – perhaps that could help now, that the Tarly name demanded no respect or consideration at all, Sam was sure of it.

No, he had another reason to seek audience at the Hightower. He needed protection for his mother and sister, and Mother’s letter wasn’t exactly clear. Hightower didn’t play the game of thrones like others did. The lord rarely left the tower if he did at all, Sam didn’t remember seeing Leyton Hightower for many years before he left Horn Hill. They had little interest in the power games, Sam recalled, the Hightowers were loyalists during King Robert’s rebellion. They favoured Targaryen over Baratheon, but knelt like the rest, and then returned to their solitary lives.

He’ll have to discuss all these things with Ser Davos on their journey, Sam made a mental note to make sure he remembers. He also had to figure out how to present this all, what his own opinion was. He knew for certain that he didn’t agree to any sort of Lannister alliance, he would’ve never, he would’ve followed their liege. That was a start, Sam thought, he was almost certain that Hightower did the same. If they didn’t rise against the Mad King, why would they against the Lady Olenna? Sure, she was called Queen of Thorns for a reason, but she was their liege.

He was certain that the recent events ensured even more that no Lannister could hope for support from Hightower. For all Sam knew, they promised the sun and the stars to his father, and he was stupid enough to believe it, Sam could see that now. But will Hightower support Daenerys Targaryen? She who burned the Tarlys who betrayed the Reach? Mother wrote that the lords conclusion is it was no justice. Sam agreed with that. But if they have no other choice, then Hightower would kneel, or more like, stay out of the war as they did stay away from the Field of Fire, then open the gates of Old Town to have Daenerys declared Queen. At which point, supplying the North through Old Town would become impossible, for they would not dare angering their new Queen, surely….

Welcome to politics, Sam, Lord of Horn Hill, that’s what Lord Reed said. Well, what a welcome it was, Sam chuckled, for this was one conundrum he really couldn’t see the end of. What a maze, Sam thought. He’ll hate being Lord, he already does just spending the journey to Seagard trying to come to grips with it. He glanced back at the dozen of northern sailors. There’s no way back, Sam. These men surely have families, children to feed during the winter, and they volunteered to take you to Old Town. If there’s a ship at harbour. If there are favourable winds, if Humfrey is at Hightower…. Sam didn’t write to his mother in the end. There could’ve been time to scribble a note and Lord Reed would’ve sent it, but Sam decided against it. There’s no point troubling Mother, in case he loses his head in Hightower.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments, they inspire me. I read them and I read up about things said... so I stumbled on the name "Humfrey". It's also the medieval equivalent of Humphrey, and I am a history geek who's absolutely favorite person in history was called Humphrey. So sorry, I didn't get as far in the books as to know if any of the Hightowers ever came down from the tower, but I decided that a character named Humfrey has to be in my story, it's an absolute must :)  
> There's also finally some use for Sam, who I had to neglect until now. It may be totally immature planning in the chapter (mixed with Sam's exitement and jumping to help and be useful), because I literally scribbled this together, but I'm quite excited about it. It may also mean that yet again I diverted from my storyline meaning more chapters lol... 
> 
> As for Cersei - I have no comment hahah


	53. The Trident I.

Sansa watched as the riders disappeared, silently noting that Howland Reed awaited her to turn. She wondered what kind of success may lay in the endeavour of Sam Tarly, Jon’s greatest friend now riding off to the abandoned Seagard with Jon’s former Hand Ser Davos as his company. She was sceptical and keenly aware of the fact that she seems to just have taken all of Jon’s remaining friends and confidantes from him, hoping it won’t be futile. She’ll have to tell Jon, though, all of it. It seemed unfair, and Sansa wondered whether she really became the selfish Queen Jon proclaimed her to be. She wouldn’t have minded, was it anyone else. But it was Jon whom she robbed of advice, just at a time when Jon was fighting their greatest battles and giving everything he had – including his freedom, in return for their independence. It was indeed unfair. There was nothing else to do, she told herself, there was no other way. She tried to believe it. She hoped she’ll see Ser Davos and Sam Tarly again after this, but most of all, she hoped it won’t be futile, this new sacrifice that she forced on Jon, and they will succeed.

Slowly she turned, carefully resting her weight on her clutch. Reed offered her free arm, but she didn’t take it.

“Jon would have need of Ser Davos here,” she said instead.

“Jon has been doing this long enough,” Reed countered, “He’s not how he used to be. He’s become the Targaryen he was born to be.”

“And you believe so because he beheaded a man in front of you,” Sansa declared with a slight hint of irony.

“Of course not,” Reed answered somewhat defensively, “But I told you, they defeated the Greyjoy fleet, as well. If he continues like this, he’ll become seen as her equal, I am sure of it, and neither I nor Ser Davos was beside him to counsel him. He grows on his own.”

“He’s still Jon,” Sansa murmured, “He can’t fight all our enemies on his own, Howland.”

“And yet it seems to me that he will do just that,” Reed said, just as the slight breeze hit them. He looked up, and Sansa’s eyes followed.

The wind picked up, as they turned around back towards the clearing they were just about to leave, their eyes still fixed on the sky. The dragon circled down, as if its rider wanted to see first, before landing.

“I will tell him, Howland,” Sansa said firmly, “It has to be me, and he has to know everything.”

Reed merely nodded as they watched the dragon land, pale winter sunlight shining on greenish black scales. The landing was gentle, Sansa thought – as if the dragon took on Jon’s – former – personality, he became gentler. What a thought, she amused herself as she watched Jon swiftly climbing off Rhaegal’s back, or more like, walking down as if he walked down a set of stairs.

Reed bowed beside her and she nodded, before her Hand left her, and she waited for Jon to reach her, wondering about what exactly she will say, how she’ll reason, and most of all, seeing the stern expression on his face, whether she’ll awake that rage in him that Reed told her about.

“I see greeting me is not on Howland’s priorities today,” Jon said with a flicker of a smile that Sansa returned. He must’ve had his own share of bad news, she thought – Jon only chattered and joked when there was bad news.

“I told him that I’d rather speak with you alone,” she explained, “if you walk me back to my tent.”

Their walk was silent, slow and heavy on her. She watched from the corner of her eye how Jon studied the camp, at times nodding at the men. And she watched the men, bowing deep, wondering whether they bowed to her, or to him. Or both, perhaps, she preferred that option.

They entered her tent and she slowly settled on her camp bed, Jon watching the process with what she perceived a painful expression, yet he seemed so alien now. He cared, Sansa reminded herself, and yet, it seemed that the last time they spoke alone was a lifetime ago, that they were both different people. Her heart pumped in her throat, not only because of the task ahead but merely at his sight, she knew. She tried to brush that side of herself aside, to the past where she felt it belonged.

Sansa motioned toward the chair, and Jon sat in front of her. “I see you are on the mend,” he said softly, “Though I can’t say it’s to my liking, seeing you like this.”

“There’s nothing to do about it,” she said, “It’ll heal, all of it will. You saved my life, so they can heal.”

He smiled at that, the kind of smile only Sansa knew, she thought. Jon hardly ever smiled to begin with, and lately it became so rare that she couldn’t recall the last time she saw it. The knowledge of what she’ll have to tell him gripped at her heart. He won’t smile like that after he learns.

“I will tell you as it is,” she said lowly, “Please Jon, hear me out. You can be angry with me after you heard me out, just let me explain.”

He raised an eyebrow, but nodded, and so she continued.

“Howland walked away because I asked him to,” she began with a sigh, “Because I wanted to tell you myself. I named Howland Reed my Hand, I found that he is the best choice to help me rebuild the North, and I need help, more than petty bickering about you and your birthright and the Dragon Queen. Winter is here, and our people will hopefully return home soon, we have no supplies to last through winter. I need Howland’s help to do something about it. We are an independent kingdom thanks to you, but it would be for nothing if we starve and freeze this winter.”

She watched as he listened keenly, his face turning into that of surprise, before he nodded, and she could swear she saw understanding in his eyes.

“You chose well,” He said after a moment of silence, “You chose the most suitable. Why would I be angry with you?”

“Because this is not all,” she said, her eyes settling on his hands – his fingers fiddling with the ribbon tied to his wrist. “Lord Reed spoke to Sam about this, who spoke to Ser Davos, and… The both of them are gone, Jon. They will sail to Oldtown, for Sam means to try and convince some of the lords in the Reach to aid the North. I tell you because I trust you, but you must never tell the Dragon Queen.”

He sat up straight, meaning to speak, but she continued, “If this all goes the way you planned, you’ll remain in the South and she’ll sit on YOUR throne, and I accept that. The Reach will be hers, and she may as well declare it treason for all I know, aiding the North. I need your support, when she finds out, I need you to fight for the North like you vowed to.”

Sansa’s eyes met Jon’s, as they both took a deep breath as if it was a mandatory pause in the conversation.

“So Sam is gone, and so is Ser Davos,” Jon summed up, seemingly struggling with his thoughts, before he burst out, “I am not angry Sansa, the only thing that could make me angry is you implying I would betray your efforts. I WILL fight for the North, always. And, if I may add, it is not MY throne. I gave it to my heir, the next in line, and so it is not mine.”

“Yes, you did,” Sansa said firmly, “But if you didn’t, things would be so much easier for us now, Jon. I accepted your decision, but you can’t expect me to agree with it, in my eyes it will always be yours.”

“You would have me take it instead,” Jon hissed.

“If I had a say in it, I would,” Sansa declared, “I have no say in it. Neither does Arya, Lord Reed, Sam and Davos and Edric and just about every northern soul, because I am certain that they would all have you take it. You made your decision, all we can do is accept it and its consequences.”

Jon jumped from the chair, and Sansa watched as he began pacing back and forth in the small tent. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips at one point, then suddenly stopped to look at her.

“Tell me true,” he said, “Is there anyone who did… anything to make me change my decision?”

Sansa allowed herself a slight smile, as the flicker of thought passed that she should probably be offended at the question. She wasn’t, it made perfect sense to her to ask her this, now.

“You mean writing those letters,” she pointed out, “And my answer is no. I know of no one in this camp who wrote them. We don’t like how things are going, but I honestly doubt anyone could sink that low as to aid Cersei Lannister.”

“They aren’t directed at Cersei, apparently,” Jon explained, and Sansa was surprised.

“What do you mean?”

“They are sent to southern houses, declaring for Aegon Targaryen to be put on the Iron Throne, calling upon them all to join our fight against the dead, all the while betraying our movements. Cersei receives the letters from those loyal to her.”

She had to laugh. It sounded so stupid, someone so eager to support them that they betrayed their movements to Cersei. Which is why it was merely their cover, she told herself. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped as she realised what this meant. The letters declared for Aegon? Not Jon.

“No one in the North would call you by that name,” she stated, “and I doubt anyone here would be so cunning. I don’t see the point of the letters other than aiding Cersei, still.”

Jon smiled forgivingly at her. “Not even you would be so cunning?”

She startled. Of course he thought of her, she reminded herself. She sighed.

“I didn’t write those letters, Jon,” she said firmly, “Please ask around if you would like, and others will tell you, I sent no ravens to anyone. I would not betray you like this.”

He seemed relieved to her then. “Thank you, Sansa,” he said softly as he knelt in front of her, taking her bandaged hand in his hands. “You understand why I had to ask? Why I had to be certain?”

“I suppose I would be HER best candidate,” she said lowly, “I understand that.”

He leaned down to place a kiss on the bandage before he stood, without looking into her eyes.

“Are you not angry with me, then?” Sansa asked.

“Angry? No,” Jon chuckled as he finally looked at her. “I may pity myself, though, who’s left to give me advice I can trust? Reed, well the place of the Hand is with the ruler, Davos kept chanting me that. And Davos is now gone, so is Sam. I hope they succeed, truly… I commend the idea. It has Reed all over it.”

“What will you do?”

Jon sighed. “Wait for Daenerys, I suppose…” his eyes looked at her questioningly, “Then we all march South, and catch up with Ser Jaime and the main army. And we fight. Then… well, it’s bad omen to plan ahead before a battle.”

*****

“Lord Reed,” Reed turned toward the voice, albeit he recognised it as soon as Edric Snow called out his name. He stopped to wait the now- not so limping Edric to catch up with him.

“I’ve not had the chance to speak to you since that night,” Edric rushed the words, “I mean to apologise. I meant to leave Greywater Watch, Lord Reed, so the dead leave it. I wanted to save it.”

Reed smiled forgivingly at the man. Not so cocky anymore, he thought to himself.

“I know leaving it wouldn’t have brought back your friends, but it would stand still…” Edric was clearly looking for the right words to express himself, “I wish I could’ve gotten to the Queen in time, and the rest of them too…”

It was enough, Reed raised his hand as he shook his head for Edric to stop. His face was full of kindness.

“It is what it is, my Lord,” he said, “I too wish the boys were smarter, and none of it would’ve happened, but wishing doesn’t get us anywhere. You have no reason to apologise.”

“It is not true though,” Edric said, his face still solemn. “That wishing doesn’t get us anywhere.”

Reed didn’t respond, so he continued to explain, “You were listening, my Lord Hand, when I spoke with Ser Jaime. Congratulations, by the way.”

Reed chuckled. “Thank you. Now, Edric, you’ve been made a Lord, don’t do anything stupid, for your people. Follow the Queen.”

“That is exactly what I intend to do,” Edric declared, standing straighter, “But I also intend to muster a force only loyal to Jon Snow. Targaryen. Whatever name he uses.”

Reed was amused. Finally, the cat began to crawl out of the bag, he thought. “Your loyalty to Jon is rather fickle, Edric.”

Edric sighed. “I am prone to anger, it is true,” he said apologetically, “I was angry, Lord Reed. I suppose I was angry because I didn’t know, and I lost a friend for it. A mistake I gravely regret.”

“Aye, you did,” Reed agreed with a grin, admitting to himself that he’s enjoyed this conversation, while he wondered where it was leading, why now of all times. “Jon has learned the lesson, my friend. His trust isn’t so easily won these days.”

“I will win it back,” Edric declared, with youthful confidence in his voice. “If I may ask, who leads the Golden Company now? I hear he beheaded Strickland, that prick. He was a prick, Lord Reed.”

“Aye, he was,” Reed laughed. This was it then. “Jon Connington, albeit they follow the sword. Jon wields Blackfyre.”

Edric laughed aloud, his laughter roaring away in the wind, so loud that Reed raised his eyebrows in bemusement.

“I have nothing more to do then,” Edric said finally.

“Because Connington follows Jon,” Reed noted aloud.

“No, Lord Reed,” Edric grinned, “Griff would give his life and that of every man in that company for Rhaegar Targaryen’s brood. He was in love with the crown prince, have you not known? He’s sworn himself, he’ll do anything to see Jon on the Iron Throne I am sure of it.”

They reached Reed’s tent finally in their walk, and Reed turned to Edric. “Be smart, Edric. This is not Essos, and Jon is not at all lenient these days. He’s given orders to keep you from the Golden Company, see to it that you obey.”

Edric’s face turned serious, so Reed explained further to drive home his message. “Jon wouldn’t take it lightly if you stepped out of line, or anyone else did for that matter. Men are losing their heads to Blackfyre. Whatever you plan, don’t do anything foolish. The North has need of you and the Wolves.”

Edric nodded. “I’ve no plans, Lord Reed, I swear,” he said, hand on heart. “I know my place. My loyalty isn’t as fickle as Jon and you perceive. I just ask you to keep in mind, Lord Reed, for I know you want the same, as I and just about every northern man in this camp, and if I am right, even the Queen in the North herself. When the time comes and there is a need, there will be a force larger than any other in Westeros, and it will be loyal to Jon. I fear I tell the truth when I say he’ll need it.”

He bowed to Reed and walked away, and Reed watched and wondered about his last words. All this time he thought Edric to be foolish, but his last words struck a chord. What if he wasn’t so foolish after all? What if he merely did what Reed intended to, before he met Jon and Jon surrendered his claim – Edric began to unite the fighting forces, by turning Jaime Lannister, that’s true. The Golden Company knelt to Jon’s person, that is true as well. What if Edric was right, what if there’ll be a time when Jon will have to fight? After the dead are defeated, what will come? Reed sighed deeply, perhaps Edric was right all along. Jon needed an army, for there had to be a way to keep the peace after. He always saw the next war approaching, perhaps Edric already saw the way to prevent it.

*****

Dany sighed of relief as the camp came in sight and kept grinning more and more as it emerged fully in front of them. Rhaegal was snoozing on the nearby hill, meaning Jon was here, too.

In truth, this journey has been perilous, boring. She didn’t mind the ride, she felt almost at home on horseback as she did atop Drogon, but they had to keep a slow pace – the travel car carrying Tyrion and Varys didn’t agree with the rough terrain. This wasn’t a leisurely travel on the Kingsroad. Dany’s only relief was the thought that those inside the car couldn’t have enjoyed being constantly bumped around either.

It was all for Lord Varys, she thought bitterly. The man decided to join them, despite Dany reasoning that a travel car is not fit for army marches and retreats, he also opted to use it. Comfort above everything, Dany thought, hoping it won’t bring their doom. She declared as much to Varys – if it came to hasty retreat, don’t expect anyone to bend over backwards risking their lives to protect a slow travel car. Varys merely declared in his usual bored manner that he’ll ride a horse when he’ll have to. His face made Dany wonder if Varys could even ride.

The camp seemed to grow more alert, men were rushing about as they neared. As soon as they reached the first tents, Dany could see Jon rushing forward. He took her reins and offered his hand, but she didn’t take it. She has no need of a man’s hand to dismount a horse. Or for anything else, she added to herself.

“We were about to prepare for the march,” Jon said, his gaze settling on the travel car.

“Varys,” Dany explained in one word. “He’s said he’ll ride if he has to.”

Just then, Varys emerged from the car, he and Tyrion stepped in front of Jon. Jon narrowed his eyes glancing at the Spider, for some reason the shiver ran down his spine suddenly at his sight.

“You two,” he nodded to two wolves on the side, “See that the two horses in front of that… thing, are saddled. Cut up the rest for firewood, add them to the pyres.”

Varys merely raised an eyebrow. Dany chuckled, thinking, had the journey not been on northern terrain, perhaps both would’ve protested, but surely Varys would’ve.

Jon turned and they all followed, their small company ushered away, and Dany could see them being offered bowls and hot stew from cast iron urns. She hoped for at least the same as she entered the command tent following Jon.

Edric Snow and Lord Reed stood, but the Stark sisters didn’t. Dany’s eyes scanned the scene, for a moment settling on the pin on Reed’s chest, head of a direwolf in the palm of a hand. She noted to herself that they lost the man. Her mood darkened immediately.

“What’s the plan?” She asked.

“We march south, through the night,” Sansa Stark spoke, to her surprise. A moment of silence passed before she continued. “I would stand and greet you, Queen Daenerys, however I still struggle with being on my feet. Come and sit with us, we were to sup before we prepare to march.”

Dany raised an eyebrow. Sansa Stark’s demeanour has somewhat changed. She noticed the glance the Queen in the North gave towards Jon, and even more so the angry look Arya Stark shot at her sister. She was back with the bickering lot, she reminded herself. None could ever see eye to eye with these people.

They were served bowls of stew and freshly baked bread, and ate mostly in silence. Only Lord Edric’s stories of Essos broke the silence after a long while, for he began to tell tales of old when his company and the golden company fought together. Only for Lord Tyrion to point out that they fought Targaryens. Edric countered that they fought in Essos, and not only the Targaryens, and that wasn’t the point of his story. He merely explained that sellsword companies can well adjust to fight together.

“There’s no fighting together, not in that sense,” Jon declared, and all eyes settled on him. “My plan doesn’t unite the armies.”

“What is your plan, then?” Arya Stark asked curiously, Dany wondering if the questioning had really none of her usual angry attitude in it.

“It is not mine,” Jon said, his eyes settling on Sansa Stark. “It is Ramsay Bolton’s, and Sansa’s. For it was Ramsay who used this plan against me, and Sansa’s move with the knights of the Vale will finish it perfectly.”

“I don’t understand,” Lord Varys spoke, “If I know correctly, Ramsay Snow encircled your force outside Winterfell.”

“Aye, he did,” Jon explained, “He lured me in, my forces followed me, and they merely marched around us. We’ll do something similar, on a much, much grander scale.”

Dany tried to imagine how this would work, watching as Edric’s whole face lit up in excitement. That man was a soldier, name him a lord and he’s still a soldier. He’ll always be a soldier, Dany thought.

“Once we reached the southern camp, we’ll have a proper council,” Jon said as he stood. “We’ll discuss in detail then. I want everyone present when we agree on the plan.”

Dany nodded in acknowledgement as she stood as well. Sansa Stark remained seated, and Dany wondered as she followed Jon out the tent whether the Queen in the North could even stand up from a chair without help. The thought amused her, though she was a little ashamed to admit it to herself. This was Jon’s family, she reminded herself. She hated them all the same. They hated her all the same, and she was Jon’s family just as well. Some things can’t change, she thought bitterly.

In the end she had no chance to speak to Jon before they got on the move. Lord Varys finally proved that he can indeed ride a horse, albeit the sight looked so alien, paired with his sour face, that Dany laughed aloud when she saw it. She also saw Sansa Stark on a horse, sitting gracefully, wrapped in blanket atop her cape, her one good hand holding the reins. She had to admit to herself that Sansa Stark seemed every bit the Queen. It made her look around her to see how she fared in that department, her hand brushing the soft white fur of her coat as she arranged the front sides around her thighs. It’ll be a long, cold night, the fur should keep her thighs warm. Still, she didn’t feel the usual satisfaction from being settled on her horse, not until Drogon and Rhaegal took to the skies, shrieking loudly as they flew ahead above them. Then the march began, at a surprisingly fast pace, they weren’t wasting time. They were galloping steadily, a whole army, and finally Dany felt content as she joined Jon at the head of the force.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, while I seem to struggle to find inspiration to actually write the chapters lately, I did spend some time to work on the plot. I’m really happy with it now. It doesn’t rely on anyone’s love for anyone, imho - which I prefer. Character fates - Jon, Dany and Sansa - haven’t changed, but sadly I’m killing off some more characters soon. The plot of the traitor is important - it’ll have a major impact, which I really hope will work ☺️  
> For those who asked, there seem to be 70 chapters + epilogues. The setup for them is better now, as well, ironically because the love line has been removed lol  
> For those missing the fights - sorry, it seems that the next one is 6 chapters away. But it received a new twist 😜  
> For now, it’s just marching South and some more delving into those letters will come..


	54. The Trident II.

“Who would have thought?”

Cersei laughed aloud, in her usual, carefree, plainly pretentious way of laughter. “What had the world become? It is mind-boggling really, isn’t it?”

The woman merely stared at her. As she lifted her lavender-soaked linen to her nose to breathe, to block out the unbearable stench of rot, she wondered once more if Ellaria Sand has gone completely mad. Her eyes were shining so unnaturally, so wild, was she not in chains, Cersei would’ve feared her. Her gaze was that of a wild animal, not at all the woman she once was.

Cersei’s gaze fell once more on the corpse. It became unrecognisable truly, only the clothing revealed that it was once a woman, a Dornish. There wasn’t even skin to identify now. It was completely deformed, mis-shaped, in colours of deep blue and purple and grey, bordering black, round and riddled with holes like scars oozing the liquid out of it, still. As she looked closely, she began to wonder if the bloating was to cease soon. It’ll shrink to a mere faction of its size soon. The floor was no longer covered like a river in the bodily fluids escaping the corpse, by now it dried to a thick sticky substance on the stone. Only small pools in the corner were still wet but not from the corpse. No, that was human waste.

She still knew to move aside to do her business. It told Cersei, she wasn’t mad yet, not completely. She was still in there, behind those wild black eyes staring at her.

“Ahhh,” she gestured with her free hand as if she just remembered something vastly important, “I almost forgot to tell you the latest development of the war! How forgetful I became, this pregnancy… have you had it like this? Forgetting things?”

“How many have you had, four? Five?” Cersei laughed, “I must admit I know nothing about how many bastards you popped out. Forgive me, but bastards are not recorded or reported, you know how it goes…”

“Anyways,” she carefreely waved away the topic of her monologue, knowing full well that she’s hit the right nerve, “The war. There are all these rumours about the Golden Company having defeated the bastard… oh, forgive me, Aegon Targaryen. And the best part of it is, he doesn’t know that I know it for the rouse it is!”

She laughed heartily at her own revelation.

“I also know that this… Aegon _Snow_  still hasn’t defeated the dead. One has to wonder whether he’s the worst commander Westeros has ever seen, for I hear he allowed these dead men to march across the whole North, through the Neck… and destroy it all! That bitch Sansa? She’s queen of the ruins, soon enough she’ll be on her knees begging whomever cares to listen to feed her people, in the midst of Winter!”

She laughed once more, before she took a deep breath from her lavender scented linen and leaned closer.

“Let me tell you a secret though,” she whispered. “I have a plan!”

“I have the best plan, and soon enough, I will grant you new company, I promise you.”

Ellaria shuffled, and Cersei wondered if she saw fear in her eyes.

“Oh no, not that Targaryen bitch,” she smiled, as she stood straight once more, “the bitch is nothing. She has claim over nothing, it seems she’s accepted it. I hear she rather rides the claimant then fights him… She’s nothing to me, only a foreign whore. I don’t care about foreign whores.”

Cersei’s eyes searched Ellaria’s – there was an extremely faint hint of relief rushing through the gaze of her prisoner, and she smiled proudly.

“What kind of friend am I, if I only brought you some foreign whore,” she whispered, still smiling, “No, you’ve been so good to me these past weeks. You were my company and confidante. I will reward you with a much better prize. You see, Lannisters always pay their debts – even if the debt is in recognition of loyalty.”

Ellaria shot an angry glance at her.

“I will soon grant you a Targaryen cock,” Cersei declared smiling, empathising the last word. “I hear you Dornish love such activities above everything else. And I hear he is rather pleasing to the eye, albeit lacking the silver hear and purple eyes. The Targaryen whore may have current use of… you know, but that doesn’t matter. Soon enough, my friend, and I’ll make sure my gift to you will be pleasing. Hells, even if I have to order him to, I will have the means to make him obey. Worry not, soon your days will be filled with more than just conversations with me. It’s been a long while, for one who… likes it that much, like you. Soon enough, my dear, soon enough.”

She blew a kiss toward her prisoner before she stepped out of the cell, rushing toward the stairs. As soon as she reached the ground above, she retched. That stench was unbearable down below, it became more unbearable by the day.

She smiled then. This promise she’s made was very much to her liking. Hells, she would even enjoy watching it, now that Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen resolved the problem of Euron Greyjoy for her, it’s not like she had anyone she’s had to…

The idea floated in her mind once more. A Lannister had no claim to rule, a Targaryen did. HE did. And he was unwed. No doubt that is why the Targaryen whore was so keen on such an amicable relation with him, and Cersei was just as certain that Tyrion counselled her to wed her nephew, to restore herself as a Targaryen claimant. Cersei hoped that the gift will arrive in time, albeit she didn’t really have a plan yet. She didn’t make up her mind yet. She really wanted to do what she promised Ellaria – she had the perfect plan to get it done, and she would surely watch the entertainment.

But if she thought with the crown on her head, she had to concede to the knowledge that she had an even better use of him. This matter of Jon Snow being Rhaegar's long lost son wasn't all bad news to Cersei, no not at all. It should not be Ellaria he’ll strive to please, it should be the Queen herself. For if the bastard said the words, his claim would forever remove any doubt about hers. Cersei knew how to gain the means to make him do it, the gift… She was certain that the gift will be here soon. THEY will be here. The men must have a strong conviction, she thought, riding all the way here. She had no reason to doubt their promises, she told herself. They will bring her the greatest gift she could imagine, and they will bring HIM – and the means to make him do whatever Cersei wanted. And no, it wasn’t anything to do with the Targaryen bitch, Cersei knew, as she walked across the courtyard laughing loudly.

*****

“What is on your mind, my friend?” Davos settled on a wooden trunk besides Sam Tarly, looking eagerly in the distance, his face worried.

“I wondered if there are any Ironborn sailing these seas now,” Sam whispered.

“It is unlikely,” Davos smiled. “Jon and Daenerys defeated them, Reed told me before we left.”

“He told me too,” Sam nodded. “I am not worried to be attacked, Ser,” he added then hastily, “I swear, I am only worried that we would be delayed.”

Davos sighed.

“This friend of yours,” he said, “Can he really grant us an audience at Hightower?”

“Humfrey is a Hightower,” Sam smiled, “He’s the youngest of them. He used to summer at Horn Hill, I suppose because he had no chance of becoming Lord Hightower. He never really wanted to, I think… he always made jokes about it. About the maesters and the necromancers… ohhhh…”

“What is it, Sam?” Davos stood seeing the sudden change on Sam’s face.

“I just remembered,” Sam whispered, “Humfrey told me things. He told me of dragoneggs kept in the dungeons of the Citadel… What a fool I am! I could’ve seen it for myself when I was there.”

“We have no use of dragoneggs, Sam,” Davos smiled.

“No, we need grain and meat now,” Sam agreed eagerly, “But were it in the future…”

“In the future Daenerys Targaryen will be Queen, regardless of how hard it is for you or I to accept,” Davos said lowly.

“But in the future, if she’s queen and she’s… well, they say Targaryens’ coins land on either side, if she’s like her father, Jon could have use of them eggs?”

“First we have to survive the war, survive the winter…” Davos argued, albeit kindly, “And, you may be surprised. We all may be surprised by her when she becomes Queen. I would say, there’s no point in planning so far ahead with such ideas.”

“You are right, Ser Davos,” Sam consented, “I am sorry. I should be focusing on Hightower.”

Davos gave Sam a pat on the shoulder. “You accepted a heavy burden, Samwell Tarly,” he said lovingly.

“I am glad you decided to accompany me, Ser,” Sam nodded, feeling truly reassured in the moment. “And to answer your question, I know Humfrey will help us. He is different. He is more… like Jon, I suppose. He acts.”

Davos smiled at that, hoping his relief didn’t show on his face. “You’ve not seen him for many years though, Sam, but if you liken him to Jon, even if just a little, I say we may have good reason to seek his help.”

“We do!” Sam’s excitement rose at the confidence shown to his childhood friend. “He’s always been one eager to act. He used to dream of going to Essos and become a sellsword. He said because he doesn’t stand to inherit, it is his freedom to be whatever he wants. His father didn’t allow him though, his father loves him very much. That is why I am certain that he can help us.”

“And what will we tell him, Sam?” Davos asked.

“The truth,” Sam said. “Humfrey will like it. Hells, he’ll accuse me of forgetting him, not having sent for him to fight with us! I am more worried of what we will tell his father.”

*****

“I am surprised you aren’t up there, riding your dragon,” Tyrion said nonchalantly, looking at Jon. He studied the man for the past few hours, ever since Dany took to the skies atop Drogon. He came to realise, and then to accept, that this man was not the boy he’s advised during his brief time at the wall. He wasn’t even the king who welcomed them the last time Tyrion saw these lands. Yet it also wasn’t the man toying with Euron Greyjoy at the dinner table on Dragonstone a mere few days ago.

While Tyrion understood it, saw clearly through it, and even admired the notion of giving some kind of justice to the Greyjoy siblings through it, he did wonder whether Jon was about to crack under pressure. And Tyrion was no fool. He knew as soon as about midday that day how that night will end, the Queen will take this man to her bed. And he didn’t even need to consider, why.

So he watched Jon and wondered about it all. He grew up, he certainly did, Tyrion told himself. He’s a leader. Hells, he’s a king. Fairly tall, broad shouldered, young and fair. Fair, on the outside just as much as in his heart, Tyrion concluded. Though he seemed to take a liking to beheading his enemies but who could blame him? Those broad shoulders carried more weight than Tyrion could imagine.

Jon was much calmer, then the last time Tyrion saw him on Dragonstone. He left Dragonstone following an argument – about a ribbon of all things – and now he was calmer. Tyrion wondered about it. He wanted Jon to concede to the inevitable, willingly and with love in his heart. While on Dragonstone, Tyrion allowed himself to believe that Jon was on his way to do just that. Perhaps he was, indeed. But Tyrion wasn’t sure now.

What Tyrion was sure of is that Jon didn’t know it himself. Jon didn’t have a clue of how this all should end. This realisation has prompted Tyrion to take account. They were in the midst of war, and truth be told, the leader of their efforts, their armies was Jon and he alone, singularly and capably. Jaime followed Jon out of conviction, of that Tyrion had no doubt. Daenerys followed Jon, despite being the only one who had the means to oppose her nephew – though Tyrion wondered if Dany in fact lost a dragon to Jon, he reconciled to the fact that Dany followed Jon’s lead without question almost as well as the dragon Rhaegal did. The Queen honestly believed in her newly-found nephew, that was clear to Tyrion, albeit the rest of her confused and complex feelings were more mysterious, and Tyrion wouldn't necessarily have likened them to love. Finally, there were all these sellswords, too. Their commanders knelt and pledged allegiance, also to Jon's person.

When they arrived in the North at the start of the war, Tyrion spent some time pondering on Jon the man. He seemed to Tyrion as a King unwilling, a King who took on that role as if there was no one else willing, as if it was a sacrifice, trying hard to find his way around all the parties he was to deal with, as if it was like navigating a sinking ship in a storm. Tyrion recalled wondering just how much a struggle it was internally for Jon.

Then the news that Jon had an even bigger struggle, that of his identity. But the Jon who rode at the head of this army now seemed almost free from struggle. He seemed resolute. Tyrion admired that, for his mind kept racing around in circles, desperate to figure out a solution for the ‘what comes after’. Jon’s ability to seemingly block out all issues not in the immediate interest to resolve was astonishing to Tyrion.

He didn’t notice Jon’s eyes on him.

“Sometimes the men need to see their leader,” Jon said, “That they have a leader, they haven’t been abandoned.”

“And leader, you are,” Tyrion nodded, smiling in acknowledgment of Jon. “That is what I was wondering about. In truth, I am astonished. What have you done to the boy who I lectured to consider the perspective of others?”

“I grew up, my lord,” Jon said with a chuckle. “All of us did. I grew up and I fought, and I’ve been killed, then I fought some more, and I’ve been named King… We’ve lost the North, lord Tyrion, we’ve lost the Neck. I cannot be up there flying atop a dragon high above the men who lost their everything in this fight. I called them to arms. I need to bear the burden of it with them.”

Tyrion nodded. “Wise words, wise indeed.”

“Are they?” Jon asked lowly. “Since when is speaking the truth labelled wisdom? It is merely the truth, it doesn’t need a man to be wise to see it.”

“No, it needs a brave man to speak it,” Tyrion smiled. “I like you, Jon Snow. Targaryen. Forgive me, I am getting used to it. Your old name had a quite nice ring to it, hard to forget.”

“Aye, the name is hard getting used to,” Jon glanced at him. “I would say I like you, Lord Tyrion, but you I rather speak the truth. I cannot tell if I like you. Time will tell, I suppose.”

“I wonder if I should be offended,” Tyrion laughed.

“You can be,” Jon raised an eyebrow, “But it wouldn’t change the fact that I know nothing of what you represent. I speak the truth. You and your eunuch friend on the other hand, I wonder if you speak the truth.”

Tyrion pondered on it, mainly on the fact that Jon viewed him and Varys as two of one mind. If only Jon knew, Tyrion had to chuckle. There was a time when he and Varys was of one mind, but when it came to Jon, their minds could not have differed more. Tyrion couldn’t blame Jon for not seeing, but it highlighted something Tyrion felt these past weeks the need of – to urgently distance himself from Varys. Not as a friend, of course not, for Varys was admittedly his only friend – but if Tyrion was of his own mind, it was clear that they didn’t see eye to eye when it came to the continuation after the war, about the how-to.

In truth, Tyrion had no idea what Varys thought to be the right way forward. They defeat the dead, they defeat Cersei, and then what? Varys never spoke of any plans. He said he stands for the people, yet he supported a Queen who was clearly autocratic, to the point that Tyrion himself struggled to show her the irreconcilable conundrum in her own views. She aimed to rule as a Queen who had no need of a King, while having by her side as consort the very man who was the sheer embodiment of The King. The king of the people. Once Tyrion viewed Daenerys as the Queen of the downtrotted, and perhaps she truly was in Essos, but lo-and-behold, here was a man who seemed to be almost elected to claim that title among his many other achievements, none of which came via his birthright, or any right.

What was Varys doing?

Nothing, but Tyrion knew better. Varys was never doing nothing. He was certainly watching, Tyrion saw how Varys’ watchful eyes drove Jon from the dinner table on Dragonstone. He came with Tyrion and the Queen to be able to see, that was certain. But what will he do, when he saw? And what did Varys want to see so badly that he risked his own life, to come with an army that was heading to a certain pitched battle? Tyrion couldn’t tell, and it troubled him. Now, finally, he admitted to himself – it troubled him. So much so that he couldn’t even come up with a joke about it to ease it.

“I am quite sad not having seen Greywater Watch,” he said to Jon instead, “The Queen was completely in awe, and if I may say, sadder than I ever saw her that it was gone.”

Jon smiled a painful smile, and Tyrion caught the sight of him glancing at the ribbon on his wrist, barely peaking out from under the sleeve of his quilted coat. Tyrion wondered for the moment, what could go through the man’s mind. Most likely the memory of Sansa Stark so gravely injured during the fall of Greywater Watch, he thought.

“It was a marvel.” Jon whispered, glancing at Tyrion as he slightly raised an eyebrow. “I know you saw me looking at my wrist, my Lord.”

“You have sharp peripheral sight, then,” Tyrion laughed.

“Perhaps,” Jon said nonchalantly. “Perhaps I do certain things to see how you react, my Lord, in order to see if I am right.”

“And I thought the northerners do not speak in riddles,” Tyrion declared, still laughing.

“Dany confides in you things she should not confide in you about,” Jon said as his eyes scanned ahead.

“I advise the Queen in matters she seeks advice with.”

Jon laughed aloud. “Soon you shall see your brother again,” he said instead, dropping the topic altogether.

“And I look forward to it very much,” Tyrion agreed, “And if I may add, the Queen advised me that I have you to thank for her trust in my brother.”

“I would say you have your brother to thank for it,” Jon corrected, “I’ve done nothing in the matter. But if it is me you thank for it, then perhaps it would be to my benefit if Lord Varys also had a brother.”

Tyrion had to laugh. It was a funny remark, so unexpected from this sombre young man.

“I would feel quite sorry for Varys’ brother,” He said amidst his laughter, “The little birds wouldn’t let him draw a breath without a whisper.”

Jon looked at him with eyes so stern, that his laughter ceased. “Varys’ little birds, Sansa told me of them,” Jon began, as if there was more to declare, but he turned away, without finishing the sentence. It occurred to Tyrion that his mind began to process a thought instead. He wanted to ask, but as he opened his mouth Jon finally continued, “Perhaps little birds sing too far and wide for their size.”

Tyrion startled. What does this even mean? Another northern riddle? He must be unfamiliar with northern riddles because he really didn’t get it. But Jon was already focusing elsewhere, and Tyrion looked to the other side following his gaze.

The land was dug up besides the road, broken stones were lying around amidst earth piles and burnt remains of pyres.

“The company has done their job well,” Jon remarked to himself, and Tyrion understood. This was a cemetery. They dug up the bodies and burned them. The stumbling conversation ceased as the meaning of such a deed dawned on both of them. They rode past the endless piles and pyres and broken grave stones. It was a grim reminder, for sure, of why they were here.

*****

Sansa sat patiently, watching as they all settled in the tent. They looked tired after another night of steady ride, her calling for a meeting before all of them took their rest was perhaps a bit cruel, she thought.

“Where’s Jon?” Arya asked.

“Jon is not part of this council,” Sansa explained calmly, raising her good hand to silence whatever outburst was forthcoming, for there surely would’ve been one, judging by her sister’s face. “He is a Targaryen and holds a claim on the Iron Throne, the status of which is not for us to debate. This is a Northern council, and therefore, Jon has no place in it. It is at my discretion what I disclose or discuss with Jon, and not up to any of you to betray the trust of this council, or any further council meetings that may follow.”

Edric Snow seemed startled at that. For a council, their little meeting was rather small. Gone are the days of large war councils, Sansa thought. She had Edric, Howland Reed and Arya.

“I called the meeting because I’ve not had the chance to tell you about some development we’ve set in motion,” Sansa said. “As you know, we lost considerable part of our supplies for winter, and many of our people also lost their homes. Samwell Tarly and Ser Davos are on their way to Old Town and will represent the North in seeking aid from the Reach in the form of grain supply. With Jon’s consent, I may add, but not in the knowledge of Queen Daenerys, therefore keep it to yourselves.”

Both Arya and Edric raised eyebrows. Sansa allowed herself a small smile as she glanced at Reed, just as amused at their surprise. Perhaps ruling was surprising.

“Will they also aid us when we have to fight?” Edric asked.

“IF,” Sansa corrected, “Our aim should not be to fight, our forces are decimated, my Lord. We should be focusing on survival first, before we focus on fight. But I can tell you, if they choose to aid us, and it comes to us having to fight later, I would petition for support in that as well. Same as I would petition again for the Knights of the Vale, and I will petition our cousin Lord Robyn for aid as well, because that support I believe could keep fight from northern soil, perhaps… I am no military mind, you are.”

“And the Riverlands,” Edric added, looking somewhat proud of himself at such a recognition from his queen, “Have support from the Vale and the Riverlands and any army marching north will have to fight through them.”

“I have no one to petition in the Riverlands,” Sansa said lowly, “I know nothing of the fate of our uncle.”

“I do,” Arya said nonchalantly, “I released him from the dungeon at the Twins. And I know for certain that he will come to our aid.”

“That is, if he reclaimed the Riverlands,” Reed pointed out. “I’ve not seen any sign of it, we are marching through deserted lands.”

“Perhaps they are at Riverrun debating whether to hang Edmure or skin him alive,” Arya chuckled.

Sansa shot an angry look toward her.

“What?” She puffed. “He’s a coward, and one could argue that he’s also a traitor. Robb was his king, and Edmure defied his orders. Smalljon Umber lost his head for defying Robb’s order, but Edmure got wed for it!”

“And thrown into the dungeon of the Freys for years,” Reed finished the sentence, “There are punishments worse than death, lady Arya. Death doesn’t bind a man to time in a cold dark cell to be spent with nothing but wondering the mistakes he’s made.”

“Perhaps,” Arya shrugged, “But he would come to our aid, I know that. If he has Riverrun and the lands. He would, because I have shown him the hall of the Freys after the feast. And I told him what will become of him and all of his if he betrayed the North once more.”

“Well, it is of no point counting on him,” Edric added, “Since none of us knows where he is.”

“I can find him,” Arya spoke once more, “If the Queen gives me leave, I will find him.”

Sansa didn’t respond.

“Good, very good,” Edric remarked, “We need southern allies.”

“We are gathering allies to survive winter, not to wage war,” Reed corrected.

“Survival equals growing strong,” Edric countered, “and we need to grow strong if we want to retain our position, if we remain weak sooner or later there’ll be a self-proclaimed conqueror forthcoming.”

“I remember one of Robb’s letters to Kings Landing,” Sansa said, “He signed it as King of the North and the Trident.”

“Does that mean that the Riverlands belong to us?” Arya’s eyes grew wild.

“I wouldn’t bring that to the attention of Queen Daenerys,” Reed’s voice was troubled by this news clearly. “One kingdom to claim independence is what Jon pledged for, if she loses three, she may not accept it as easily.”

“Four,” Edric corrected Reed as a matter of fact, “The Reach with Samwell Tarly…”

“Sam will never be Lord Paramount of the Reach, my Lord,” Sansa interrupted him, “It’ll never be his decision whom the Reach swears fealty to, and even it was, it wouldn’t be wise to stand for the North when it is separated from the North. Just as unwise as it is for us debating it.”

“Aye, let’s survive first of all,” Reed smiled at the Queen, and they all nodded in agreement before Sansa waved her hand, and the tent emptied in an instant. She sat there for a while longer, wondering about the conversation.

How she wished Jon was here – so they could talk about it. Edric was keen for confrontation, that much was clear. Arya was keen to do something, even if it was to wander around in the Riverlands with the army of the dead on the move. Sansa could not allow that. No, until the dead are defeated and Jon killed the Night King, no one will seek out Edmure Tully, or anyone else for that matter.

She slowly rose and stumbled to her campbed. She needed rest, too, like the rest of them. Her mind began to return to Jon, just as they did every time she was alone – she attributed it to the memories they shared from a different time, when they shared a different tent. She swept away the thoughts, as she finally laid down, staring at the ceiling. There was no point in them anyways, not anymore.


	55. The Trident III.

“Why is it so important to you?” Jon asked, lifting his weight from one leg to the other impatiently. He was desperately trying to not let his frustration take over him. He needed to make amends. “What does it matter? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Dany replied with a forgiving smile as she reached for her chalice. She sat by the small folding table in her tent, the kind of table the army now carried for all of the tents of lords and ladies. Tables and folding cushioned chairs, and camp beds with down and horsehair mattresses. Jon looked around once more, his earlier thoughts about possibly ditching such luxuries, in order to show men that he cared, have no returned to him. It was impossible to ditch these, though, he knew. It would be radical even for him, and he wasn’t the one used for luxuries.

“Then explain to me, please,” he said lowly, and Dany laughed.

“You are a man, Jon,” she declared, “Even in this. You are blind to see what predicament you can cause to women.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. It is true, he could not tell for his life what went on in a woman’s mind, he learned that long ago, during his days spent with Ygritte, and his experiences since only reassured him of the hopelessness of trying.

“You think, you just wait, and you just do what you find is right, or allowed,” Dany said, “like being with me, I am sure you are certain that is right. I am certain you find that since you vowed to stay with me, this is something that is allowed. And I agree, it is what I want. I want us to figure this out together, I have your word to figure it out together.”

“But since you received that ribbon, you find it perfectly normal to wear that, too,” she said before she sipped from her chalice. “And it is not. Perhaps it was once, but you cannot be with one woman and wear the favour of another.”

“Who decided that I cannot,” Jon asked stunned, “Where is that written? I wear it Dany, I told you it is part of me. Does that make me less, no it does not. I told you, don’t ask me to give what I cannot. Is what I can give not enough for you?”

She stood and walked to him, “Either you are mine, or you are not,” she whispered, looking up straight into his eyes. “You have to make a choice, either all of you is mine, or no part of you is mine.”

“It’s not that simple,” he whispered, and she nodded, noting his words.

“What about Sansa Stark?” She asked, “Why can’t you let her go? If you vowed to come south with me, you would leave her anyways so why can’t you let her go?”

“Don’t ask me to abandon Sansa,” Jon said lowly, albeit somewhat sternly. “I gave my word to stay with you, But I also gave my word to protect Sansa, my word means something to me, Dany. Don’t ask me to break it.”

Dany smiled, for a moment looking deep into his eyes as if she was searching for some clarity in the depths of his soul through them. “Your promises are growing harder to keep,” she declared, “perhaps too hard. Sooner or later, one is bound to be broken.”

“Perhaps,” Jon whispered, “though I still don’t understand why you think that I can’t keep both. It’s a ribbon, Dany. It’s nothing else, a ribbon.”

“It’s a ribbon and what it represents, to you,” Dany said, turning away from him, and he could see that she did so to prevent him from seeing her fury arising once more. “How could I trust you if you don’t let me in, you don’t explain…”

Jon took a deep breath. This was the exact remark she’s made when this conversation began, it seems that they reached full circle. Neither of them seemed to have benefited from the argument.

“You should think about it, Jon,” she said as she sat back, and Jon could sense that the conversation was over, from the way she seemed to settle in that cushioned chair as if he’s already left the tent. “You’re the one asking for too much,” she added.

Jon sighed as he turned and actually left the tent. This was a waste of time, he didn’t feel better from it, he only felt more miserable. He didn’t need anything to make him feel more miserable. He had this whole war for that, every time he looked at the face of a northern man in the camp, he felt miserable. He was desperate for it to end, or even if that wasn’t to come just yet, for a moment of relief and the opportunity to lay down all the problems and responsibilities, the weight that seemed to get heavier by the hour weighing him down, making him feel as if he was already dead.

*****

Jon sat calmly, almost motionlessly by the river, watching the water flowing by in anger in front of him.Time to time he leaned forward and reached into the water, watching as it washed over his hand. His sword arm, his mind wondered if water could ever wash away the deeds this hand was capable of doing, the things it did and was yet to do. Other than that, his mind was surprisingly calm. It amazed him what a little rest could do to his mind. Where before he felt utterly defeated – the word ‘miserable’ so often crossing his mind to describe himself – now he felt rested, energised, resolved. He slept properly for the first time in weeks, he reminded himself. He used to stare at the ceiling of his tent, roll around in the camp bed so uncomfortable, laughing at his annoyance of it and his unusual craving for the comfortable bed at Dragonstone. Even though even on Dragonstone he could not sleep well, his exhaustion allowed him just the right amount of rest to keep on going, for so long he couldn’t remember when it started.

Not today. After he left Dany’s tent and returned to his own, it felt as if something gripped at him, he laid down and sleep came, sound and silent, deep sleep with no nightmares to disturb his rest. He woke by himself, it seemed that no one dared to disturb him – and the guard told him later that he’s been ordered to not allow anyone disturb him. By Queen Daenerys. Jon would’ve began to ponder about why Dany would so suddenly look after him but in reality, he didn’t. He felt as if he didn’t care. He came to the river to wash as much as daylight allowed, seeing that the men were doing the same earlier, and after he finished he decided to sit here for a while. Throughout it all, no thought of war or dead men or Targaryens and Starks and Lannisters dared to trouble his mind, not even once. It was a welcomed experience, albeit quite surprising.

Even to himself, it was rather unusual how now agonising, no doubting came to him now that he sat by himself, finally having a little time for himself. His mind seemed resolved to a great many things since the last time he had time for himself to think. When was it? He struggled to recall.

At Greywater Watch, at the edge of the marshes to be exact, when Reed took him to see Benjen and the both of them left him to decide on the hypothetical question of whether he would accept being King of Westeros, or not. They left him with Quagg, and by now Jon realised that Quagg wasn’t left to merely guard him, he was left to guide him. Quagg who later fell to the dead and was now lost to them, with all his wisdom. It seemed for a while that he was always being guided to do what others wanted him to do, but was he really doing what others wanted him to do?

No, he never was like that. He defied the Nights Watch and went to Hardhome, he defied every whinging Northern Lord and prepared for war. He cut the wrist of Gran Umber on his own accord. He rode out to The Long Lake based on his own conviction. He left Winterfell to burn, he burned tens of thousands of the dead at White Harbor, he abandoned Castle Cerwyn, because that is what he decided to do. It was he who wanted to meet with Edric Snow and recruit his company, and it was he who wanted to meet with the Golden Company and see what kind of man Jon Connington was. It was he who decided to trust Jaime Lannister, as well. And, lastly but not least, it was he alone who beheaded Harry Strickland, not before torturing the man because that was what Jon wanted to do, to satisfy his boiling blood, because he couldn’t burn the man alive. He should’ve burned the man alive, and Euron Greyjoy too. But instead he mocked and tortured Euron Greyjoy, to the point that the man chose to die. Even that wasn’t Greyjoy’s choice – it was Jon’s. It was his thirst for vengeance that drove Euron Greyjoy to fall on Blackfyre. Whatever the man he became was like, he surely was his own man, always, he conceded.

The thoughts didn’t bring any discomfort. They brought a strange sense of acknowledgement, one that came with neither relief nor shame. He thought of his wine-fuelled thoughts during the night on Dragonstone, as if his mind had split in two arguing endlessly. He called that other half of his mind his old conscience, Jon Snow. By now, he wasn’t so sure. Men grow, and learn, mature after all, shaped by the experiences they endure. Jon endured and changed like any man would, and hardened. He wasn’t the boy anymore who was eager to say the words of the Watch, he wasn’t the Lord Commander who Olly so callously stabbed in the heart. He wasn’t the naked man on the table that the Red Witch brought back to life. He wasn’t the King the North proclaimed anymore; he even wasn’t the Commander who led these armies in any of the battles they fought. Not even the man who made love to a Queen that one night on Dragonstone. It was all in the past, the experiences that shaped him. He felt resolution.

He kept wondering if there were really rubies in the ford. As the tale goes, the rubies from his father’s armour fell into the water as he fought Robert Baratheon. As the axe hit his chest, shattering ribs that surely pierced lungs and heart alike, and he fell to his death in the water. Jon could see no rubies, though he wanted to. He wanted to see a sign, a confirmation, acknowledgement that he returned to this place a good quarter of a century after his father died in this very place. Perhaps Baratheon stood where he was sitting now. Perhaps a little more downstream, he thought, perhaps if he moved, he could find one of them rubies, if he looked. He didn’t want to move.

It’s not like he felt the need of an acknowledgement, his resoluteness in himself surprised him. He almost craved for his insecurity to return, but while he looked in himself, he could not find a sign of it. He knew who he was, and he accepted it. It’s funny really, he chuckled then. All his life he wanted to be a Stark, a trueborn, while he never really thought of wanting to be a Lord – that was always Robb’s right. He never really wanted to be anything besides a trueborn. He never made plans, he never had grandiose dreams like Bran did, of becoming a knight, a Kingsguard. And now, he could’ve been a King even, not just a Kingsguard.

His mind was so clear about it all. He didn’t regret giving up his birthright, though he could see what a colossal failure the cause of independence was. What was the North, really? A poor, devastated kingdom of vast unpopulated lands and small settlements, its people by now surely unable to fend for themselves even if they could reclaim their homeland after this war. Sansa was right about that, just as much as Jon felt right about naming Sansa Queen. She always looked beyond the here and now, unlike Jon, and while she was surely bogged down in the bickering about Jon’s birthright at the start, she rose above it just like Jon expected her to.

He brushed aside the thoughts of Sansa before they reminded him of her sight after Greywater Watch. Too often the memory came to mind, her almost lifeless body on the camp bed, struggling in the forced sleep while Reed tended to her wound. No, he didn’t want to remember it.

His thoughts returned to himself, and the analysis of the man he became. He was almost certain that he reached the end of this evolution, for once more he could stand straight and feel in control of himself. He had no regrets, still. He didn’t mind that men seemed to fear him these days more than admire him, albeit he could see that they still admired him, and he didn’t mind that anymore either. They have to have fear and admiration for their leader. Jon was no fool, he realised what he represented, who he was to them. He was the embodiment of their hope, even though they had no idea of prophecies of ice and fire and knew almost nothing of what Jon must do. No, their hope went beyond that, Jon could see in the eyes of Tyrion Lannister when they spoke, just as he saw in the eyes of Reed and Jon Connington, and Jaime Lannister and Edric Snow, all of them. He WAS the leader, Jon Targaryen. He knew his worth now, he knew his bloodright, he became self-aware.

The fact that he was a Targaryen was no longer a thing to be ashamed of, either. It wasn’t something to hide, it was to be exploited. He had too many days when he wanted to be Jon Snow instead, and thought that even being a bastard was better, but those days were long gone now. This war taught him to stand up for who he really was. He needed it, despite knowing that once he stood, he could not abandon his identity after the war as easily as he claimed it. There was no way back.

Jon didn’t ponder on what that meant. He merely relished in the certainty and sense of accomplishment that he felt about it. It was good being someone. The power his name gave him, paired with the power he was invested with, meant that it really didn’t matter anymore what came after, not in his view. Anything could come, and he would be this person, this prince, capable of almost anything. Capable of defeating death itself, for Jon had no doubt that he would succeed. Whatever he had to do to get here and to defeat the Night King mattered just as little as the man he was before he set out on this journey.

“There was a council,” he heard behind him and turned to see Arya. “You weren’t invited.”

“A Northern council, I presume?” Jon gave a slight smile as he motioned for Arya to sit beside him.

“That’s what Sansa calls it,” Arya huffed as she sat down, leaning her head against his shoulder. Jon moved his arm to pull her into an embrace.

“She is right,” he said softly, “And she is your Queen. I don’t belong on a Northern Council; she is right to exclude me.”

“But you are our brother,” Arya declared somewhat desperately.

“No, I am not,” Jon placed a soft kiss on her forehead, hoping it eased the sharp edge of his words, “Truth now. I am not your brother; I’ve never been your brother. I am your uncle, and I belong to a different House, I am not a Stark. I share your blood through my mother and you are family, you are very dear to me. It’s not enough for me to sit on a Northern Council or to meddle in the affairs of the Kingdom of the North, Arya. In some ways, I am an enemy of the North. I have a right to the North, resigned or not.”

“What about Sansa?” Arya burst out, looking up at him.

“What about her?” Jon asked startled.

“You say we are dear to you,” Arya began to explain, “Don’t you love her? You aren’t brother and sister, you know she…”

Jon put his pointing finger on her mouth to silence her. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want anyone near to hear it.

“You should not say out loud such things as you meant to,” he said kindly, “Not about your Queen. And I will not discuss such matters with you.”

Arya jumped up from the stone they shared.

“Great,” she hissed, “She locks me out and now you lock me out. What use have I if no one even cares to have a conversation?”

“Perhaps no one wants to deal with your outbursts, Arya,” Jon said with a silent laugh, “Perhaps if you tamed these tantrums, people would be keener to involve you in their matters.”

“You want me to behave like a Lady,” She said, more calmly now, if not somewhat smugly.

“No,” Jon laughed, “I want you to behave like a grown-up. I want you to see things as they are, not as you want to see them. See the reality, Arya. Once you do, Sansa will have need of you. I will have need of you, in fact. And for the record, you could never behave like a lady, not for your life.”

“What need would Sansa and you have of me,” she asked, her desperation returning, no matter how she tried to mask it, to act in a way she perceived Jon would like her to act. “She doesn’t give me leave to find uncle Edmure, even though it could mean more forces to us.”

“The dead are on the march,” Jon narrowed his eyes as he spoke, “And you want to wander around in the Riverlands by yourself. That is not at all what a grownup should do. She’s right to not allow it. It’s foolish, plainly.”

“Well, thank you,” she hissed, “for the nothing.”

Jon chuckled. “You came to me because you thought I will allow it,” He declared, “and you could defy Sansa’s order because of my own. It’s a bit too plain a plan for a trained assassin.”

“A trained assassin is of no use in an army, Jon,” she said lowly.

“No, but she is trained to be patient, I presume?” Jon smiled at her, “Or at least those who trained her tried to teach her patience not knowing she’s incapable of such a thing.”

“What is there to be patient for? The war is now, Daenerys is here, and Cersei is in Kings Landing…” She burst out, before she caught herself, reminding herself of Jon’s earlier words.

“That,” Jon whispered as he stood and opened his arms toward her, “is something to be patient for, to wait.”

She stepped into the embrace and returned it. “What am I waiting for?” She whispered into his chest.

“The right time,” he said, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. “You used to have a list,” he whispered, “I hope you still remember it. No army can walk through the walls of Kings Landing and I want no unnecessary bloodshed. Perhaps I’ll have use of your skills, after all, once we get there… you must be patient.”

“You have a plan,” she declared with a grin.

“No, I don’t,” Jon shook his head, “I merely count on good luck. Keep it to yourself.”

He looked up as he heard the riders approaching, and she turned to see.

“These are not our men,” she declared as she wholly let go of him, her hand reaching for the handle of Needle. Jon’s palm already rested on the ruby of Blackfyre by his side.

As they watched the men approaching, suddenly a dozen of Dothraki rode forth, encircling them, preventing the riders to get near. But the riders didn’t seem to mean harm, they calmly dismantled outside the circle, somewhat startled at the Dothraki.

Jon raised an arm, and the riders parted to give him way. He hoped he wasn’t showing any signs of his bewilderment at the realisation that he’s been guarded all along by a dozen of Dothraki, certainly at Dany’s command, if not Tyrion Lannister’s.

“We are seeking Aegon Targaryen,” a man declared stepping forward, sheer hope in his eyes at the sight of Jon, so clearly a Westerosi in contrast with the wild riders he seemed to dread more by each moment.

“Who?” Jon stopped mid-step startled.

“Aegon Targaryen,” the man repeated, raising a small scroll in his hand.

Jon studied the man. Middle aged, and no doubt a lord.

“Name yourself,” he ordered in the tone of a Commander, as his gaze fell on the scroll. It could be a rouse, Jon suddenly felt thankful for the Dothraki, not that they meant much security against the riders – their number kept increasing as they halted behind the man.

“Theomar Smallwood,” the man said, studying Jon.

Jon’s gaze fell on Arya.

“Riverlands, owes fealty to House Vance, then to Riverrun. Sigil, six brown acorns on a yellow field, words, From These Beginnings. He’s the Lord of Acorn Hall.” Arya rushed the lecture as if Master Lewin was asking for it, and Jon chuckled.

“I knew all that,” he said, his gaze once more returning to the man in front of him. “And I knew a Smallwood before, Thorren. Ranger in the Nights Watch, and a good man. I hear he fell at the Fist of the First Men.”

“Aye, my younger brother,” the man said, somewhat saddened, “I knew not that he fell, though I presumed as much from these scrolls we keep receiving, dead men marching across the North and all.”

So it was one of those scrolls, Jon noted to himself.

“Why are you seeking Aegon Targaryen?” Arya stepped forward as she asked, to the man’s amazement. “I am Arya Stark, sister of the Queen in the North, and of the Trident. You ought to answer me.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. The Trident?

“We received word, that Aegon Targaryen leads the fight against the dead, we received a call to arms,” the man said somewhat hesitantly. “The Lannisters plundered my lands, then the Brotherhood without Banners plundered my lands, I don’t need dead men to devastate whatever my folk has left. I came with my men to join the fight.”

“What does you liege say about that, though,” Jon pointed out.

“My liege? Vance can burn in the seventh of hells and I am certain he does, and as for Edmure Tully, I will not obey a Lord who betrayed his own King. They say he betrayed Robb Stark. I will not serve a traitor. Hoster Tully declared for Stark, did he not? Starks fight in this war, do they not? Someone has to restore our honour.”

“And that would be you, lord Smallwood, with…” Jon leaned to the side to pretend a count, “three hundred men? Maybe four?”

“As I said,” Smallwood grew restless, “We fought wars. We no longer have a large army, and I had no heart to order men to fight. These are those who volunteered, mine and from the neighbouring lands, some are Vance’s, I am merely their leader till we join Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon raised his eyebrows as he nodded. He reached out his hand with a sigh, and Smallwood stared at him questioningly, so much so that Jon had to chuckle.

“I am the one you seek,” He said, and the eyes of Smallwood and those surrounding them grew wide in amazement. “Though the name you got wrong. I’ve not sent these scrolls, but I am the leader of this army, all these armies. I am Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“The heir to the Iron Throne!” someone whispered behind Smallwood, but apart from that they all grew silent and still. Smallwood finally caught himself and handed Jon the scroll.

His eyes merely scrolled through it, before his fist clenched, rumpling the scroll in his fingers. He didn’t like what he’s read, not in the least bit. He was in deep trouble, he knew it.

*****

 

 

 


	56. The Trident IV.

It was truly winter, it arrived, with wind gusts blowing so strong that one had to tightly hold their cape around themselves and hold on to the pikes as they walked the pier… And still, in a way it was as if time stopped a very long time ago, the pier, and the town beyond seemed as if not a day, let alone years have passed since the last time winter visited this place, and perhaps many winters before that. As if time knew that anything that came after that undefined moment was – horseshit, Sam chuckled. Jon would call it horseshit.

He glanced aside to see Davos shivering the same way he did, as they rushed as much as they could, past ships large and small, bearing flags of various Essosi cities. None bore a Westerosi flag, Sam noted to himself – the first change from the last time he walked these grounds. Of course, who in Westeros would care to trade? Who could trade? He recalled Master Melton’s lessons of economy. His old master and tutor enjoyed giving him monologues about economy, believing himself to be an expert, and in Sam’s eyes at the time, he was. Now Sam recalled what Melton once explained to him – war was good to economy. In war, one can strike it rich through trade, if one knows what to trade. But it seemed to Sam now that perhaps too much war wasn’t so good to the economy after all. There was barely anyone left to trade, and those who were left were too busy surviving, even in the south.

But Old Town thrived, because Old Town had trade links far beyond most other trading posts of Westeros did, and it seemed to Sam judging by the amount of ships in the crammed harbour that war had little impact on Old Town. It gave him a curious thought – old Hightower was never keen on some of these cities, Sam looked around and back to see the flags. Yes, he was right, Hightower did expand trading beyond lord Leyton’s preference. Interesting, perhaps due to the war? To make up for lost revenue? Sam hummed to himself as he made a mental note of it.

Mental note or not, he forgot it as soon as he looked up ahead once more. He recognised the man standing at the entrance gate to the harbour, of course he did. Tall, blond haired, broad shouldered. Sam’s sister used to gush about this man for weeks after he left at the end of every summer he spent at Horn Hill – Humfrey Hightower.

“I did not believe it when I was told,” Humfrey said as Sam neared, “I came to see with my own eyes. Samwell Tarly, are you not guarding the wall then?”

“There is no wall to guard, Humfrey,” Sam declared. He expected a warmer welcome, that’s for sure – but then again, he was a Tarly. He was a son of a traitor here.

“So you thought to return and claim Horn Hill, then?” Humfrey stood still, his icy blue eyes searching Sam’s face before he began to study his companion, Ser Davos.

“I understand why you would presume so,” Sam said, as his fingers began to fiddle with themselves unconsciously in front of his belly. He felt so very uncomfortable and cold. “I truly do, you see…”

“Perhaps the tale could wait until we reached some warmer place?” Ser Davos intervened in his usual comforting tone. Humfrey raised an eyebrow.

“I fear it is the warm place that can wait, Ser …?” He said, “No one enters Old Town without the leave of Hightower.”

“Ser Davos Seaworth,” Davos introduced himself with a slight nod, and Humfrey’s eyebrow rose even higher.

“Your name says precious little,” he said, “But that does not mean I have not heard of you, Ser Davos. You and your king Stannis Baratheon.”

Davos sighed. This will be quite hard indeed, Sam thought.

“Fine then,” Sam declared, “I sum it up for you and you can give us leave to enter and grant us audience with your father, or you can send us back and if we are lucky Seagard will still be in our hands, and if we are not lucky, well, we may visit once more as blue eyed corpses and we won’t be waiting in the wind for you to give us entry for sure!”

Davos chuckled. Sam’s tantrums were just too funny, rare but whenever they occurred, one had a hard time to decide whether to startle in surprise, oblige or just laugh at them.

Humfrey’s gaze returned to Sam, and he surely wasn’t laughing, his eyes narrowed. “Blue eyed corpses, you say,” he repeated. “We’ve heard of them. Some fool calls himself Aegon Targaryen and sends scrolls summoning smallfolk to arms against them.”

“That’s a rouse, Humfrey,” Sam said with feigned confidence, “It’s not Jon – Aegon Targaryen – who sends them. He’s looking for the traitor who sends them. But that is not why we are here. You see, Ser Davos, he was Hand of the King to Jon when Jon was King in the North, before we revealed that he was a Targaryen and so he could not be King, but anyways, he’s not sending calls to arms. He didn’t send us, the Queen in the North did, or to be exact, her Hand of the Queen did, though to be exact, I sort of volunteered…”

Davos put his hand on Sam’s arm, “That is enough, Sam,” he said softly, and Sam suddenly caught himself in his rambling.

“Ser Humfrey,” Davos began, “My friend here spoke quite highly of you on our way here. And he speaks true for we seek an audience at Hightower, with your Lord father, if you would perhaps grant us entry and an audience? The wind will soon freeze us to the stone standing here otherwise.”

Humfrey sighed. “You’ve not changed a bit, Sam,” he said lowly, “You still rumble aimlessly when you’re nervous. I presume the Ser will speak of whatever matter you bring to Hightower then, but it will not be my father you will see.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Lord Leyton…”

“Passed a moon ago,” Humfrey said sadly, “It is my brother Baelor you mean to speak to. He is no friend of Tarly since your father’s business, I can’t see why you would seek an audience with him.”

He turned to Davos then, “I am not a ser, Ser,” he declared, “and neither a lord. Were it not for Sam Tarly sending for me, I would not care to come here in this wind either. Do not mistake me for someone I am not, it was either me who welcomes you, or the guards and they would not care to hear what you have to say. The cells under Hightower are much colder than this.”

Davos nodded in acknowledgement of the meaning behind those words as Humfrey continued to Sam. “My brother is now Lord of Hightower, Sam. Your arrival is quite ill-timed. There are more urgent matters than the lordship of Horn Hill at this time.”

“I don’t give two fucks about the Lordship of Horn Hill,” Sam huffed, and both Humfrey and Davos looked at him surprised. “All right, I do, I mean not two… ahhh. I am not here because of Horn Hill, Humfrey. Ser Davos here, and my friend, the former Lord Commander who was raised as the bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow – they reclaimed the North from the Boltons. They declared independence and the North elected Jon their King, and he chose Ser Davos his Hand. And then we prepared for War… Humfrey if you’ve seen any of what we’ve seen… all those stories we used to wonder about, they are real. The white walkers, wights and ice spiders and even the dragons, they are all real.”

“Aye,” Humfrey chuckled, “Your father had a lesson of how real dragons are.”

“He did,” Sam said lowly. “I am not here to defend his actions, truly I am not. I don’t agree with what he’s done, he… He betrayed his kin. I know that. I am here because the dead broke through the Wall, Humfrey, there is no Nights Watch anymore. Jon leads the fight, and we are quite successful, but there was a hundred thousand of them. Now there is about twenty thousand. We want to destroy them, but to get to this point, they already devastated the North. That is why I am here, I am here on behalf of Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North.”

Humfrey sighed. “Isn’t she a Bolton? Or a Lannister, considering that was the first husband and he’s quite alive and kicking still.”

“Sham marriage,” Ser Davos explained, “Jon had it annulled, Tyrion Lannister signed the annulment. She is unwed, if that is what you ask…”

Humfrey laughed aloud. “Oh, I hear she is quite comely, but no, that is not what I was asking about. I was asking about whose side she is on while she sends emissaries to treat with Hightower.”

“The side of the North,” Ser Davos declared. “She is on the side of the Kingdom of the North.”

Humfrey gave a slight grin at that. “And when Daenerys Targaryen turns around her dragons to burn whatever the dead left of the North? For all we know, this… Jon Snow, Targaryen is in an alliance with Daenerys. And more, if these scrolls are to be believed.”

“We are in an alliance with everyone who fights the dead,” Davos said. “As Jon told me once, we are on the same side because we are all still breathing.”

Humfrey bit on his lower lip. “Why now? If you didn’t seek Hightower for military aid before, why now?”

“The Queen did not send us to seek military aid,” Davos said, though it seemed to Sam that the question was more impatient, the answer more hesitant than they were supposed to be.

“Queen Sansa and Queen Daenerys are no friends, Humfrey,” Sam said, “And Jon, he got Daenerys to respect the independence of the North. He leads the armies, even Daenerys’ armies, and Jaime Lannister’s too… it’s true Humfrey, it’s an alliance of anyone who is willing to fight.”

“And you’ve not thought of asking Hightower if we were willing to fight,” Humfrey said, eyes narrowed, a small grin forming in the corner of his mouth. “You’re fighting ice spiders without me. Shame on you, Samwell Tarly, what kind of friend are you?”

Davos allowed himself a sigh of relief, as Humfrey turned without waiting for an answer and motioned toward the guards to give way.

“I cannot offer you a place in Hightower, Baelor would not allow it, even if I asked,” He said, “But I booked you a comfortable room at the Inn and supper with it. I bet the Pentosi I kicked out of the room is still rumbling about it, mind you. You shall tell me all your tales in detail while we sup.”

“You give us entry,” Sam noted aloud motionless to Humfrey’s surprise.

“Yes Sam, I give you entry to Old Town,” he said laughing, “Baelor tasked me to investigate whether your business is honest and worthy of consideration. I conclude I’ve done my bit of investigating, now we can talk like the friends we are. And I mean to learn all of your business here, and your business fighting dead men. And those Targaryens, too, I mean to hear all of it, Sam, and not without reason, if you mean to seek my help, else why would you send for me by name?”

*****

Jon leaned back in the chair, looking around as he shrugged. People were arguing, trying to convince each other, then another, accusing one another… it was a quite ironic scene, in his wildest dreams of how idiotic their situation was, he imagined scenes like this as the most likely outcome.

Earlier they were discussing that accursed scroll that Smallwood brought. Jon considered not sharing the news, he considered merely asking Arya to quietly lead Smallwood and his men to join the northerners – but with a dozen of Dothraki that would’ve been impossible, despite how Jon knew that this will surely start an all-out war amongst them. It’s one thing to know that these letters exist, it’s quite another thing to see one, read one.

Smallwood advised them that the raven came from Pentos which baffled Jon. It told him that whomever was his traitor did not ‘work’ alone. It also ruled out the northerners, except perhaps Edric who was an Essosi, if Jon considered it truthfully. It seemed to him that to most of them, this small piece of vital information was completely forgotten, despite Jon repeating it.

Smallwood stood silently in the corner of the tent, watching the scene. Jon wondered if the man began to question his decision to join them yet. Apart from them, there was only one man not joining the fray, and his eyes were hard set on Jon. It was Varys.

Earlier Varys accused Jon himself of writing the letters. Dismissing the Pentosi connection like everyone else, Varys claimed that Jon has the most to gain from these letters – they raise him to be the leader in the eyes of the whole of Westeros, and declare his claim on the Iron Throne, because – as Varys claimed – Jon means to stake his claim without staking it, if the people would demand him, he wouldn’t have to break his vow to Daenerys, merely obliging he would take the throne, and Daenerys couldn’t do a thing – not unless she means to alienate the people. Varys’ explanation almost seemed sound even to Jon, absurd, for he knew that he didn’t write any scrolls, but in the end, he acknowledged the valid reason the others recognised behind Varys’ words. The argument now was about Jon being the writer of the scrolls, even though Daenerys already declared that she doesn’t believe it.

Ser Jorah tried to convince Daenerys to consider it. Tyrion tried to convince Daenerys to consider everyone including even himself. Daenerys bluntly accused the Star sisters both, at which Arya protested – not heeding Jon’s earlier words to her – and Missandei accused Edric in return. Edric brought Reed into the argument, who tried to calm them ever since. Jon wondered what if the Greyjoy siblings were here, what would be their cause to join the argument? What would Cersei Lannister say? They didn’t find out, but because Missandei also accused Jaime Lannister, and Sansa vehemently agreed, it wasn’t like the Lannisters weren’t well represented.

Daenerys began to watch the argument, following Sansa’s lead who already silenced herself, realising how un-queenly this behaviour was, Jon had no doubt. But Varys’ eyes were still on Jon, and it made him too uncomfortable, once more as if the spider wanted to strip him even of his skin. Flay him like a Bolton.

Daenerys stood, “Whoever wrote these scrolls,” she said, her voice louder than usual to be heard above the multiple of voices speaking at once, “Know that there is only one punishment for such betrayal, whoever it is. I don’t care who it is, they will BURN. Now, as this is MY tent, I want you all to leave. I want to speak to Jon, alone.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. They all stood, even Sansa stood with considerable haste and rushed to leave the tent.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” Dany turned towards Jon, “Of the letter. Of what it said.”

“I’ve read it before, I told you,” Jon said calmly.

“You also didn’t seem surprised when Varys explained why they must be written by you,” she said just as calmly.

Jon wondered if the air grew colder. If they were being attacked – by the dead, or perhaps by the coldness that he felt settling in his heart toward them all.

“If you believe I wrote them, you must be a fool, Dany” he hissed. “In fact, if you believe a single word coming from the Spider, you are a fool.”

Dany swallowed hard. “MY people did not write letters to Cersei or anyone else. MY people are LOYAL.”

Jon wanted to laugh. As he stood, he leaned close to Daenerys, “Keep telling yourself that, Dany. Your people, the Spider who served your father and the king who overthrew him, and the Lannisters, and then there’s Tyrion Lannister himself, and Jorah Mormont, a knight sentenced to death for trading in slavery, while the rest of your people are former slaves you freed.”

By the time he finished, he reached the entrance, he was leaving. But he turned. “I don’t say this to hurt you,” he said, his tone considerably softer than before, “I told Arya the same today. See the world as it is, not the way you want to see it. See the reality, Dany.”

“I see the reality,” Dany scuffed.

“Then you must see that Varys is not fond of me, never was,” Jon reasoned, “So why not turn it on me, when I point out the letter came from PENTOS. It’s a win-win, for he is the one connected to Pentos is he not? What did Griff say? The Company treated with this merchant that housed you, because he knew a man close to the Stag king, that’s what he told us about your brother’s plans. A man close to the Stag king, Dany, and a merchant in Pentos. You ought to see that to be more than coincidence, that Varys serves you now.”

“Yet it is you who makes wild theories,” Dany said as she leaned back in her chair. “Varys merely pointed out why it would benefit you to write those letters. He did the same about both of your sisters, Lord Reed and even Tyrion, so perhaps you are the one who ought to pay more attention.”

“Oh, I’ve heard it all,” Jon shrugged.

“What is there to like in torturing Euron Greyjoy, Jon? In declaring yourself to be my brother’s son and heir when I fought so hard to reclaim the Iron Throne! You must see it; Varys has no reason to like you. He does not like you, what of it. I didn’t take you to be one craving admiration from others.”

Jon had to laugh aloud. “You should hear yourself, perhaps,” he said, shaking his head. “You are defending Varys, the Spider. The man who sent assassins to kill you. I can’t care less of what Varys thinks of me. But if he betrays me, if anyone betrays me, they will meet a fate worse than that of Euron Greyjoy, I swear it.”

“Anyone but Sansa Stark,” Dany shrugged a shoulder as she spoke.

“It’s not Sansa,” Jon said, “and not Arya either, for that matter. They have no connections to Pentos.”

“Of course not,” Dany shrugged it off, “You blame Varys because he’s an Essosi, though you also harbour an Essosi, that wolf commander. He was born and raised in Essos, was he not? But Varys was on Dragonstone all along with Tyrion and YOUR people, while it is in Sansa’s interest – were you king, it would be so easy to wed you.”

“What?!” Jon’s anger took over in an instant as he stepped closer and slammed his fist on the table. “I am not some fucking breeding horse to scheme about wedding and bedding!”

He swallowed hard, before he turned and walked back to the entrance. Yet he couldn’t leave without turning back once more. “Sansa would never do such a despicable thing.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Dany merely raised an eyebrow. She was no longer surprised at Jon’s sudden rages. “You would have me believe that she would just let you go with me.”

Jon bit on his lower lip, trying hard to surpass yet another shouting fist. “That is exactly what she has done.” His gaze fell on Daenerys, eyes piercing hers. “Because she actually does love me, she didn’t ask me to stay with her. She’s let me do whatever I wanted, even if it was to leave with you.”

“I don’t believe it,” Dany said coldly. “But go, Jon. Leave because you’re trying to leave this tent for so long now, go and find your traitor. Find it or else I will, and it is NOT going to be in my company.”

*****

Jon stepped out, right into the rain. When did it start raining so heavily? He wanted to laugh. What a folly life has become, just an hour or two ago he had such peace, and now, yet another problem, yet another argument.

He looked around and recognised the rider galloping towards him in the distance. And here it is, yet one more issue, he told himself sarcastically, as he watched Griff jump from his horse before it even stopped in front of Jon.

“You had orders to say in that camp!” Jon shouted out.

“This could not wait,” Griff said as he stepped close, his voice kept unusually low. “This has to be discussed privately with you, perhaps with Lord Reed as well…”

“Howland is Hand of the Queen in the North,” Jon declared sarcastically, “He will not involve himself in my affairs, or that of Targaryens anymore. You just have to be content with me.”

Griff pulled Jon close as he leaned to whisper into his ear, “Lysono is dead. Someone slit his throat.”

Jon raised both his eyebrows, “And?”

“He is the spymaster, Jon,” Griff reasoned, “I see only one reason why someone would do that to him. He found out of something he shouldn’t have, so the culprit had to silence him.”

“Culprit, that’s a funny word,” Jon chuckled. “In the Golden Company. Where there are no ravens, you said so yourself.”

He felt the sudden urge to laugh, and so he did, frantically, lengthily, to Griff’s complete surprise. “There are traitors everywhere now, Griff! What is it with men, unable to exist without all this scheming and betraying each other?”

“We are not perfect creatures,” Griff said, following Jon as he began to walk away from Dany’s tent towards his own. A soldier rushed forward to lead his horse away and Jon wanted to protest, but thought, what of it. He was here now, sooner or later this would’ve happened. What worse can come that he didn’t have on his plate yet, anyways.

“We ought to find out the secret that was worth to kill for,” Griff said lowly as they marched steadily towards Jon’s tent.

“What of it,” Jon shrugged a shoulder, “I presume someone in your company didn’t turn, and is planning defection perhaps – it’s not hard to figure that out.”

“Aye, but something like this killed your father,” Griff retorted, as Jon entered his tent and he followed. Jon suddenly turned at hearing the words. They got his attention.

“Pray you do tell,” Jon said, as he moved to pour wine in two goblets and hand one to Griff.

“Young boy that arrived in Kings Landing. He was ward of some Riverlands lord, didn’t get on with the other boys so he was sent to the Capitol, to Jon Arryn. Rhaegar pitied the boy, he had a cut from neck to belly button, fought one of them boys he didn’t get on with. Skinny little thing he was. Rhaegar gave work to the boy, let him close, and he began running errands for Rhaegar. Soon enough, he was part of the plot.”

“What plot?” Jon sat, intently listening.

“The plot to depose the Mad King and place Rhaegar on the throne.” Griff continued to explain as he sat, “I didn’t like the boy. Varys seemed to be fond of him, but I thought, if rumours are true Varys favoured boys anyways, not that he could do anything with them.”

“Varys’ little birds,” Jon said, more to himself before he looked back at Griff, “He used them to spy on people, not for… what you would think. That’s disgusting, by the way.”

“To each their own, Jon,” Griff said. “Not all of us are the same.”

Jon wondered for a moment – there were so many rumours he’s heard recently about Griff, and his own father.

“After the tourney at Harrenhal, our plot involved your mother, and the boy was really strange about that from the start. I told Rhaegar to beware, but he dismissed me for being jealous…”

Griff sighed, his gaze finding Jon’s. “My feelings for your father were no secret, that is true. But I always knew my place. Your father was my friend, and he accepted me, and I accepted him not feeling the way I felt, that is all. I was NOT jealous, Jon, not of a mere skinny orphan boy. He once queried me about it, and he went on and told people about it, things that weren’t kind to me. I was young, we were all young. Such things could still hurt. I didn’t like the boy, but I didn’t suspect him because I didn’t like him.”

“Next thing, Rhaegar went ahead with his plan to elope with Lyanna, and left the boy in charge of the plot, for we all were scattered, preparing. Only Varys and the boy remained in Kings Landing for a time. And it all fell apart – we all suspected each other, we all received news from the boy. Then the Starks arrived in Kings Landing with a letter claiming that Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna Stark. Who do you think Rhaegar accused of it? And the others?”

“You,” Jon said as he leaned back.

“Aye, me,” Griff nodded, “The boy did it, I was sure of it. But I couldn’t say. I could barely convince your father that it wasn’t me, I was on my knees swearing fealty to him and his brood. Thank the Gods he believed me.”

“You were growing in your mother’s belly by then, I saw it,” He added, smiling, “She stood by his side when I knelt and swore my oath. You were there, in a way.”

Jon smiled at the thought of that, the soft warmth it gave him. He reached out to take Griff’s hand in his own and squeeze it, before he pulled back his hand.

“I was named Hand right after, the Mad King sent me to fight Baratheon, and I proved to be a useless commander. He exiled me. That’s where my part in the plot ended, and that’s where I believe the plot and the war got lost. That letter, and my defeat in battle.”

“I know the boy was close to Varys,” Griff added then, “From early on, he courted Pycelle and he courted Varys. Scheming little snake, he was. Not that Varys was much different, when he arrived in Kings Landing the King’s madness turned for the worst and he never recovered. I’m sure he kept whispering in the King’s ear, about all of us. About your father, too. Those of us loyal to Rhaegar, we got exiled, removed, and I am certain the boy was behind that too, and Varys, I am sure of it. The Mad King didn’t allow Rhaegar to return to Kings Landing before he fought Robert Baratheon, he demanded the march north. What a foolish plan it was, I always thought so. Rhaegar marched north and he died.”

A moment of silence settled, that Griff spent with his memories while Jon took account of all he’s heard.

“Who was the boy?” He asked, though he had a faint idea.

“Petyr Baelish,” Griff looked up, shaken back to the present, “Heard of him?”

“Littlefinger,” Jon hissed, “Sansa sentenced him to die for a multitude of treasons, and Arya slit his throat. My sisters. My Stark sisters, I mean.” Jon felt anger arising in him once more.

“Littlefinger begged Sansa on his knees for mercy, but if I knew this, if I was there…” He shook his clenched fist before he slammed onto the table, “He should’ve died a much slower, painful death at my hands for this.”

“I’ve never had any proof,” Griff whispered.

“I need no proof to believe it,” Jon hissed in response, “Littlefinger schemed to gain more and more power. Chaos was a ladder to him, that’s what he told Bran. He told Sansa he wanted the Iron Throne, and Sansa by his side… By the Gods, I wish I killed him myself.”

Jon stood, and began to remove his soaked cloak, more to calm himself by busying himself with something other than sitting and drinking wine. He wanted his thoughts to return to reason, to the present, instead of gorging on elaborate images of what all he could’ve done to Littlefinger.

“What about Lysono?” Griff asked behind him.

“It may be related to the traitor, or it may not,” Jon said as he searched his saddlebag for a dry shirt. He found one, and swiftly changed shirts, using the wet one to squeeze the rainwater from his unruly hair.

“It matters little,” He shrugged, “I gave up the throne to Daenerys, I’m not gonna lie, I traded it for Northern independence.”

His eyes returned to Griff when no answer came. Of course, none came, while Jon revealed this as if it was conversation about the weather, a world must’ve shattered in Griff. The man was shocked, indeed.

“I knew you won’t agree with it,” Jon said softly, “But what does it really matter? My business is to defeat the dead, and if I don’t succeed, then it matters exactly nothing who’s blue eyed corpse sits on the Iron Throne, Jon.”

“From that perspective, that is true,” Griff said in a shaken voice.

“Find me the man who killed your Spymaster, Griff.” Jon declared, “I have to find my letter writing traitor, I can’t look for your killer. There’s no time for such things now.”

“Why?” Griff seemed to understand the desperation behind Jon’s words, even if his voice didn’t betray it, at least Jon felt it didn’t.

“Because I need to,” he said, “To protect the ones I love. You swore to serve me, so serve me. Find me the killer and bring him to me. Perhaps he knows something about these damned letters.”

Griff stood like the soldier he was, nodding. It was an order; their heart-to-heart conversation was over. The man swiftly left the tent, and Jon watched the flap at the entrance motionlessly for long moments after he was gone, wondering about just how shit this world has become long before he first kicked in his mother’s belly.

*****

Jon Connington stood outside the tent of the man he believed to be the answer to all his prayers, the king he longed to serve for too long. He didn’t see the man who approached him, his eyes closed, fighting the tears that wanted to break free, after twenty and five long years of misery, and the hope he’s found not even a moon ago, that was all shattered now. He only opened his eyes feeling someone’s gaze on him.

Edric Snow.

Grinning, arms opening wide, and the two men hugged each other like the old friends they were. For they were friends – whenever they didn’t fight each other, hired against each other, they drank and sung and whored together many a night in the free cities.

“We almost fought each other,” Griff declared, still laughing, as they parted. His misery got the dose of relief in the sight of Edric that it needed not to break him down and have him turned around to enter the tent and beg Rhaegar’s son to reconsider. As if Edric’s arrival was timed by the Gods themselves.

“I know, I know,” Edric laughed, “I brought the wolves from Essos, and believe me, I didn’t even have to explain to Jon their purpose!”

Those Gods damned wolves. The elephants couldn’t stand them beasts, still.

“Jon is sharp,” Griff smiled, his happiness fading swiftly.

“Aye, he is,” Edric agreed as he pulled Griff to move from Jon’s tent, “And blind too, if you ask me.” His last words were merely whisper.

“It is true then, is it not,” Griff asked desperately, for a moment wanting to believe it to be a rouse, by Jon, some kind of cunning move, nothing more. “He gave it up.”

“He did,” Edric nodded, “It was quite a scene. At Winterfell. Daenerys wanted to marry Jon, and Jon was King in the North so you can see why… Jon brought the matter to the Lords of the North who refused their consent to the marriage. She wanted Jon to kneel then, and Jon refused that as well, saying he has no right to kneel and swear away the North. Then all kinds of evidence were brought forth, and to-and-fro, Jon pledged himself and his heirs to Daenerys for the independence of the North.”

“They share the bed,” Griff declared and Edric laughed aloud.

“Seven Hells,” he responded, “You know I can’t stand silver haired Targaryens, but by the Gods, if she invited me to her bed, I wouldn’t say no either. She always had a thing for Jon, though. But she surely cannot wed him now. Because she cannot have children of her own, it is claimed.”

“This would work well for you,” Griff said in response.

“It could,” Edric nodded as they walked in the rain, “Except, I and the Wolves swore fealty to Jon before this whole mess, we bear the White Wolf on our sigil, not the Grey Wolf. The men of the North call Jon Targaryen the White Wolf.”

“What does that even mean,” Griff pondered aloud, “besides the cheeky conundrum, you owe fealty to the North, finally Independent like your forefathers wished, and you owe fealty to the Targaryen who has claim over it.”

“You are a Gods-sent to me, Griff,” Edric grinned instead of answering, “I only need to know which side you are on.”

“You know that already,” Griff shrugged, “As much as it pains me so in the current circumstances, I will always be on the side of Rhaegar’s brood. Not his aunt’s, or anyone else’s.”

“Good,” Edric declared, still grinning as they stopped besides Griff’s horse in the makeshift kennels. “Now stay alive, and I shall try as well, for there is some unfinished business in Kings Landing after we defeated the dead. We shall see more of each other soon, my friend.”

“What are they like?” Griff asked as he took the reins from the stableboy, a crannogman. “The dead, you fought them. Jaime Lannister told me stories, but I mean to hear your opinion.”

Edric’s eyes narrowed. “They’re the worst I’ve ever fought, Griff. They’re the worst because they kill my men then raise them and turn their bodies against me on the battlefield. They did as much at The Long Lake, I’ve seen it. They raised skeletons from the ground. We have to defeat them, there is no other way, if we mean to continue breathing.”

Griff merely nodded. He seldom saw Edric Snow so solemn as in this moment, he wondered about it as he mounted his horse, watching Edric turn and leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a time when I was so overwhelmed by comments and arguments in comments ☺️ - now for the first time I fear I lost most of my readers, thanks to the hiatuses I've had (or the removal of some tags).... so if you're reading and enjoying, still, please drop a comment so I know you're still following the story! Thank you 😘😘
> 
> ps - sorry for the space, dunno what happened there. first chapter wrote entirely on MacBook hahah - I'm removing them spaces.


	57. Old Town

Sam kept fiddling with his belt, occasionally releasing a deep troubled sigh, as he stood in the small hall. Even more frequently he watched as Davos kept pacing back and forth, asking him time and again, “What will we say?”

Davos kept shaking his head. He really didn’t know how they could convince Baelor Hightower of their cause. Yesterday, while they awaited aboard their ship the sign that they could disembark and report at the gate, it felt so easy. Davos cursed himself for giving in to Sam’s optimism. But they needed some optimism, their situation was so grim for so long now, did he ever care enough to consider it, to really consider it, he would’ve given up – Davos knew.  

He never gave up. Jon sent him to Kings Landing on a similar mission and he could figure what to do with it, so he perceived he’ll be able to do just the same. But this was worse than two angry queens at war, this was much worse. He had really nothing to offer, there was no juicy slice of steak to drag in front of the nose of the dogs this time, as he thought about Jon’s notion to give them Queens the hope of his alliance after the war against the dead. That worked marvellously, not in the least because Daenerys Targaryen was as good as decided to support them and was not hesitant to stand and proclaim the same. And because them two Queens were so eager to outdo each other.

There were no folks outdoing each other this time, at least not present during this audience. He couldn’t count on playing enemies against each other this time. Once more, he stopped midway from one end of the hall to the other, looking at Sam who asked as he did every time he stopped, “What will we say?” And Davos shook his head. He didn’t stop because he figured it out – he stopped to force himself back from his chain of thought and force himself to focus.

Take account of the situation, and what all Humfrey Hightower has told them. Davos’ thoughts began to wander straight away – he quickly grew to like the man, with a sense of humour and an eagerness to do good. Humfrey was now firmly on their side, Davos concluded, all it needed was indeed an honest conversation between old friends.

But Baelor was different. Baelor was a proud man – though Humfrey didn’t say why, he revealed as much as something that occurred when Baelor was much younger and still unwed. Must’ve been a woman scorning him, Davos thought, and the heir of Hightower never forgave it. Humfrey also called his brother “rather rough”, whatever that meant. Sam told Davos it’s likely about his lack of manners, that he was known for, and counselled Davos to not take notice “if he does anything unusual”. But they both said Baelor was also reasonable, ambitious after having waited for so long to come into his inheritance he was also restless, Humfrey claimed. He gave Davos a knowing look when he said that, one that Davos spent most of the night pondering about – instead of trying to figure out what he’ll say.

He’ll likely say things as they were, as he often did – he wasn’t one to twist the truth. He’ll tell Baelor they have little to offer in return for the aid they seek from Hightower. Open the trade route to the North, and provide ships, grain and perhaps salted meat to the North during the Winter. It was a tough ask, Davos knew.

His thoughts finally turned to what he’s learned. Baelor was Lord of Hightower, and now that House Tyrell was good as gone – apart from a cousin that Humfrey claimed to be “ill suited”, the Reach was in a state of cold war. The matter? The Lordship Paramount. For Baelor was the best suited in the eyes of many, including himself and his brothers Garth and Humfrey, and all the power that Hightower could muster behind them. Humfrey claimed they could outmatch any lord of the Reach in men and provisions when it came to war, but considering the state of the land, no one could tell what alliances would form. Men were weary to declare, in case they declared for the losing side, so unless it came to war, none could find out who were their allies, beyond their own sworn men and houses.

They learned that Sam’s mother didn’t declare to Hightower yet – that was something Humfrey urged them to work with, for if what Sam claimed is true, that there is no Nights Watch anymore and he’s not bound by his oath, and that he condemned the actions of old Randyll, his declaration for Hightower could mean Baelor’s willingness to support. Whether that would be enough, Humfrey couldn’t tell, and that was when the situation turned much more complicated.

The cause of this uncertainty was Lord Paxter Redwyne. Judging by Sam’s unusually troubled sigh as soon as Humfrey revealed who the opponent was to Baelor, it couldn’t mean much good though the name said little to Davos beyond the man being the Lord of the Arbor, he knew that well.

His lack of knowledge was then promptly remedied by Humfrey and Sam, and Davos now knew clearly why the situation was so dire. Lord Paxter was son-by-marriage to the Queen of Thorns herself – he was wed to Olenna Tyrell’s daughter. House Tarly rose against Tyrell in support of Cersei Lannister and the promise of the Lordship Paramount, while Olenna allied herself and the Reach to Daenerys Targaryen against the Lannister rule. This made Redwyne a clear Targaryen supporter, even after Olenna’s death – for there could be no doubt, Redwyne would seek vengeance against anyone who did ill against his family. While lord Leyton was alive, though not Paramount, his word counted much in remediation between sides and in arguments, and Redwyne voiced little of his views beyond his frequent lamentation over the loss Redwyne and Tyrell endured at the hands of Cersei. Redwyne was one of the few who didn’t consider Daenerys’ burning of the Tarlys unjust a punishment, not at all. They got what they deserved, is what he said, according to Humfrey. It was Lord Leyton who counselled the remaining Lords of the Reach to settle their disputes and let bygones be bygones, not to take revenge on a poor widow and her only daughter – the Tarlys.

Lord Leyton was gone. Age and various illnesses coming with it have finally taken him, no doubt hastened by recent troubles. Hightower stood powerful as ever, but Baelor had yet to prove himself as a Lord worthy to follow. Redwyne could never match the power of Hightower on land, Humfrey claimed – whether it was true or not, Davos could’ve never judged. They could however outmatch anyone at sea, Davos knew that well.

For now, there was no war in sight, yet. They all had Cersei Lannister to thank for that, ironically. Redwyne long withdrew himself and his twin sons to the Arbor, and it was almost certain that he was preparing for a siege of Hightower following Baelor’s refusal to acknowledge him as Paramount and swear fealty. Paxter saw it as his birthright. His father was brother to the Queen of Thorns, he married the daughter of the Queen of Thorns, and thus the last surviving Tyrell. He claimed that with him the Lordship Paramount was secure, his twin sons standing to inherit as if it meant anything – while Baelor’s marriage proved to be childless, he’s had Garth Hightower as his heir, still unwed. He could claim birthright, albeit on shaky grounds – his sister Alerie was in fact mother to Queen Margaery and Ser Loras Tyrell, lost when the Sept blew up. He’s also had Humfrey, in case something happened to Garth, but Humfrey didn’t seem to be keen on the idea of Lordship of Hightower at all – he said merely that Baelor counted on him, too.

The reason for Baelor to oppose Paxter was exactly that – reason itself. Baelor, like his father before him, counselled the Lords of the Reach to see reason. He recounted how Hightower stood unscathed throughout the conquests, throughout Robert’s rebellion by not involving itself or taking sides. He was called a coward by Paxter too many times for Humfrey’s liking, openly, and many agreed, but Humfrey saw otherwise. It was not like Walder Frey, always being late and swearing to the victor, not at all. They took a side – their own. Baelor wasn’t willing to merely stand by this time. He merely didn’t find a suitable ruler to support.

Baelor wanted no mad queen on the throne, be it Cersei Lannister – who Paxter claimed Baelor must be secretly supporting if he was so unwilling to take a stand – or Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of a Mad King who burned alive his prisoners without much ado. In the eyes of Hightower, it was no justice. Old Lord Leighton stood firm in support of the Tarly widow, declaring his personal protection. Humfrey told Sam however, it was not without price. Lady Melessa was to end the Fossoway betrothal of her daughter Talla, Sam’s sister and betroth her to Hightower. Sam chuckled at hearing that, saying Talla must be quite pleased, for she wasn’t fond of her betrothed at all. Yellow teeth were the cause, he said. But Humfrey shook his head, stating it wasn’t him that Talla thus got promised to – it was Garth. Sam merely hummed at that, causing Davos to wonder what Garth Hightower was like.

This was politics to the core. Marriages and alliances and more marriages within the same families causing a web of connections too complex to untangle. Redwyne daughters have been married into Hightower and vice versa, mediators in the form of wives tried to smoothen a deal, but Baelor refused to acknowledge Lord Paxter as Lord Paramount of the Reach.

This served Cersei Lannister well, from the outside it may have looked that she had the support of Hightower. She didn’t. Baelor was just as keen to remove her as he was keen not to serve Daenerys Targaryen. No, Baelor wanted something else, so radical apparently, that Humfrey leaned close to them across the table when he whispered: Baelor wanted an independent Kingdom. Davos and Sam merely looked at each other with eyebrows raised – for them this wasn’t so unusual at all. Jon has done it, with Davos’ help, and Sansa ruled the North as its Queen as result. Humfrey however explained it further, and his explanation was sound, Davos had to admit.

What was the North to the Iron Throne? A vast, unruly land, wild and hard to reach, frozen in winters, sometimes in need of support. It never mustered the force near equal to southern Kingdoms, simply because it didn’t have the population to do so. It meant little, it meant furs and knowledge like, how is the best to grow produce using glass houses, things that the North had or depended on for survival. It also meant mines, iron and the like, but none of the precious metals that southern lords and ladies were keen to wear.

The Reach, on the other hand? It was the richest of the Kingdoms, by any means. Any ruler on the Iron Throne who granted independence to the Reach would be a fool only outmatched by the Mad King himself, Humfrey claimed. From this perspective, Baelor’s idea was indeed radical, it seemed impossible to achieve. It would mean war, it would mean dragons burning the riches of the Reach until it was wholly on its knees to surrender, Davos knew. And Humfrey claimed Bailor didn’t come to this conclusion because he was keen on independence – Old Town and Hightower was what it was because it was part of the Seven Kingdoms, it thrived on trade within the Seven Kingdoms. Baelor had to expand to make up for lost revenue, just like Sam realised when he studied the flags of ships in the harbour. They didn’t struggle, it wasn’t about survival – no they could do much more than survive, even without Baelor’s decision to expand. But they were tradesman, and it was always about ‘the more the merrier’. Baelor intended to keep Hightower’s position, which meant keeping Old Town as the largest trading city of Westeros.

Baelor’s idea was fuelled by something quite simple, the fact that he couldn’t support Cersei Lannister, and he couldn’t find it in himself to support Daenerys Targaryen. That’s what he declared to Paxter Redwyne before Redwyne stormed out of the throne hall at Hightower for the last time and left for the Arbor for good. Baelor reasoned, if he acknowledged Paxter, Paxter would call all banners of the Reach and march on Cersei, in support of Daenerys. It would be war, and perhaps war not fought on battlefields, but at weddings and bedchambers – Baelor reminded them all that while it was Walder Frey who almost annihilated the Starks at the Red Wedding, it must’ve been Tywin Lannister behind it they surely must see that. Cersei rumoured to have blown up the Sept of Baelor served Baelor Hightower with just reason not to underestimate what else she could do, and many agreed with him. Baelor wanted to avoid an all-out war against Lannister at this time, while Cersei still sat on the throne. He just as much disliked the idea of Daenerys – he reasoned; a ruler who burns her prisoners alive during war to be given absolute power is something not to be done hastily. Baelor was weary of Daenerys Targaryen.

Davos asked Humfrey what they saw as a possible outcome, and Humfrey merely shrugged. He said it would most likely end the way it did with Aegon the Conqueror. Old Town would open its gates and she’d be acknowledged by the Citadel, then Hightower would kneel, not because they wanted to, however. They’d withdraw as soon as Daenerys named Paxter Redwyne lord Paramount, there’d be nothing they could do, and they had no doubt she would choose Paxter.

Humfrey called Paxter a snake. It must run in the blood, he said, all the scheming – Olenna Tyrell has done her share and more of it, and Paxter, urged on by his wife as much as his blood, was ambitious beyond measure. When Davos and Sam explained Jon’s situation, the prospect of a Martell marriage, Humfrey laughed aloud, telling them that they forgot about Desmera Redwyne. At one point Humfrey’s father wanted to broker that marriage for Humfrey, and to Garth following Humfrey’s refusal. Paxter would demand it, of that neither of them had any doubt by now. Oh well, Jon was indeed becoming some prized stallion to breed, the biggest prize of them all.

And why did all of them have Cersei Lannister to thank for the avoidance of war in the Reach? This was easy, Humfrey explained. Cersei summoned all of them to Kings Landing, the lords and the heirs. Baelor delayed his and Garth’s departure, sending a raven with the note that considering his situation with Redwyne, he requires time to muster the forces he considers suitable for his defence. Cersei instructed them to bring their forces. Davos wondered about that. Lords and Heirs in the Red Keep, with thousands upon thousands of their forces outside – in Davos’ eyes Cersei was amassing a new army for herself against Daenerys. He said as much and Humfrey agreed, and apparently Baelor saw it as that, as well for he told Humfrey to prepare for the worst: to become Lord Hightower himself, with his brothers slain at Kings Landing, burned alive by dragons most likely. And what else did Baelor counsel Humfrey to: it was most surprising to Davos. It was to wed Talla Tarly and carry out the little plan Humfrey long toyed with: hire the Faceless Men against whomever opposed him. That spoke a great deal of how far exactly Baelor was willing to go if he was pushed.

Davos stopped and sighed, and sure enough, Sam asked once more what he’ll say to Baelor. He couldn’t answer, because finally, the iron double door opened in front of them, and Humfrey stood there, his face grim as he nodded to Davos. Baelor Hightower was ready to receive them, and Davos hoped that Humfrey’s briefing of his brother was sufficient to build upon.

“May I present Ser Davos Seaworth, emissary to Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North…” Humfrey spoke aloud. Some of those present in the hall gasped, but he continued, “… and former Hand of the King to Jon Targaryen who was named King in the North.”

“With him is Samwell Tarly, former brother of the now-extinct Nights Watch, also as an emissary of Queen Sansa.”

There were more gasps, and perhaps huffs, just as they expected, hence why Humfrey downplaying Sam’s presence as much as possible. Davos bowed deep before he straightened to study the man who sat in front of him.

Baelor Hightower was nothing like his younger brother. It seemed indeed that the Gods spared all the beauty the blood of Hightower could muster for Humfrey, for Baelor was visibly smaller in stature, roundier both in face and body, with slumped shoulders. His face was nothing of the handsomeness of his little brother, and his eyes had none of the playfulness Davos quickly grew to like in Humfrey.

Besides him stood a man not at all dissimilarly looking. They shared their uncomely features, hair unruly in the colour of mud instead of Humfrey’s blonde curls, with moon-shaped faces and full cheeks way too red for a man. The man however was slender, almost bony, and tall, too – he must’ve been Garth Hightower, and his face spoke of nothing but resentment.

“Lord Hightower,” Davos began, as respectful as he could be, “I thank you for the opportunity to treat with you today, and I thank your brother for arranging this gathering. I must admit, I have visited Old Town many times before and always admired Hightower, to see it from the inside is such a pleasure that makes the journey well worth it, my Lord.”

“Perhaps then you are ready to return whence you came from,” Garth declared, before Baelor raised his hand slightly to silence him.

“I would much like to return, indeed,” Davos smiled, “But considering that the port I sailed from by now has surely been overrun by the army of the dead, I fear my options in that regard are limited. I may as well stay and discuss the reason of my visit in the midst of war.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we,” Baelor spoke then, “I have no time for pleasantries or riddles. Here’s what I know. You, Ser Davos Seaworth, once served as Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon, who was defeated by the Lannisters at Blackwater. And by the Boltons at Winterfell. You switched sides as I can see, for I hear you also served as Hand to a Targaryen. Still opposing Lannisters, I presume. And now you are here, representing Sansa Stark, CLAIMANT Queen in the North. The Citadel has not recognised Sansa Stark as Queen, or a Jon Targaryen for that matter, neither of them bothered to seek the recognition they ought to seek.”

“Neither did Cersei Lannister,” Davos stated, “Or Daenerys Targaryen. Or Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy, Tommen or Joffrey Baratheon, Stannis… not even Mance Rayder the former King Beyond the Wall. As I can see, the blessing of the Citadel isn’t high on anyone’s priorities these days, though if you ask for my opinion, it is not due to lack of respect on our side. Neither Jon nor Queen Sansa has time to petition the Citadel my Lord, they are fighting the army of the dead.”

“With Daenerys Targaryen…” Baelor added.

“And with Jaime Lannister,” Davos countered, “Sam and I attended many war councils where both of them spoke and worked together, as allies, and equals. Neither of them rules in our army, my Lord. Jon Targaryen is our leader, and we all follow because we believe in our leader.”

“He must be quite a man, your Jon Targaryen,” Baelor seemed unphased of Davos’ declaration, which made Davos realise that this will not be an audience like that with the Lady of Bear Island, for sure. “Though, there seem to be a little confusion around his name. We hear he calls himself Aegon, like the Conqueror himself. Claims to be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, son of Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“Aye, he is the son and heir of Rhaegar,” Davos nodded. “But there’s no confusion around the name, for your source is most unreliable. The scrolls you receive are but a scheme against Jon himself, claiming to call for support to our cause all the while betraying our movements to Cersei Lannister.”

“How is that so?”

“For one, these scrolls confirmed that Queen Daenerys allied herself to us, and Jon’s identity. They confirmed that we used Dragonstone as refuge for the people of the North, while we prepared for the war, and subsequently they confirmed our locations and when we shipped our reserves from Dragonstone to join the fight. Cersei Lannister moved to attack our vulnerable refugees and moved to attack us in the rear while we engaged the army of the dead as result.”

“And thus you fight on two fronts,” Baelor thought aloud, “Or have you already defeated either of them?”

“Neither, and no,” Davos allowed himself a slight smile. At least Baelor was interested, and he could declare something positive. “We’ve not defeated the dead yet, a hundred thousand is not so easy to defeat especially when they can just as easily raise our own dead to join their army. As for the rest, Jon and Daenerys defeated the ones who didn’t turn.”

“You turned Cersei’s armies against her,” Baelor summed what he’s heard, making it abundantly clear that his focus was on Cersei, not on some dead men.

“Jon has turned her hired army, the Golden Company, to fight alongside us, that is correct,” Davos nodded, “But not against Cersei Lannister. We fight the army of the dead, that is where our war is. Northmen, the Crannogmen and the Knights of the Vale, along with Freefolk from North of the Wall, The Company of the Rose and the Golden Company from Essos, as well as the full army of Daenerys Targaryen, unsullied and Dothraki, two dragons, and the forces of Jaime Lannister. Together.”

“Two dragons…” Garth interrupted.

“Aye, one dragon fell at Winterfell to the dead, and was raised, then defeated at White Harbor by Jon and Daenerys riding the other two.”

Baelor kept playing with his beard as he listened, nodding deep in thought. He was focused, Davos could tell. “How many are in this allied army?”

Davos wondered of the question, did his attempt to highlight how vast their alliance was backfire?

“Well, I would say sixty thousand at the least, if not seventy, but I cannot tell for sure,” he said, “we have trained direwolves, elephants, dragons, too… they are all well trained to fight.”

Garth laughed aloud, but Baelor once more raised his hand to silence him, much more prominently this time. Garth seemed to be rather foolish to Davos, and not having much of the affection of his Lord brother.

“I’ve heard that the Golden Company has brought elephants to serve Cersei,” Baelor said somewhat softer.

“Aye, and the Wolves, the Company of the Rose brought hundreds of direwolves to serve Jon,” Davos countered.

“So, these… sellswords, they serve Jon Targaryen,” Baelor translated his comment, just as Davos hoped he would, “Not his aunt?”

Davos felt the need to laugh. “Fealty is a curious thing, don’t you think so, my Lord? I never swore fealty to anyone, yet I serve Jon Targaryen loyally. Some swore fealty to Jon, yet they serve the North, and some swore fealty to Cersei Lannister yet they serve Jon, just as loyally as I do.”

Baelor raised an eyebrow.

“Humfrey advises me, Sansa Stark is unwed,” he changed the topic, much to Davos’ surprise. “She’s sent you to seek our aid, to gain our agreement that we will open Old Town harbour and send many of our ships and supplies to aid the North with grain during the coming winter.”

Davos nodded. Just as they all knew, the ask was not something inviting, there wasn’t anything to say that could’ve sweetened it for consumption.

“What has the Queen in the North to offer in return for the survival of her people?” Baelor asked as he stood and raised his hand. Some of those in the hall departed, swiftly, until only Garth, Humfrey, and a lady presumed to be Baelor’s wife remained, along with the two guards at the door.

“You’ve no answer,” Baelor said as he stepped down from his chair, slowly taking the half dozen steps one by one. He was a rather short man, somewhat chubby, too. Davos could tell the chubbiness was more to do with feasts and wine than anything else, judging by the cheeks. “She’s given you nothing to offer me, I can see that.”

Sam took a deep breath beside him, Davos could hear, and raised his hand to prevent any notion of speaking. He knew something was forthcoming – the price was to be named by Baelor.

“Your Queen seeks the aid of Hightower, and I am certain she would do so were the North attacked. She seeks an alliance, Ser Davos.”

“That alliance could bring about the doom of Old Town, I am sure you can see that for yourself,” Baelor continued as he walked around them. “Were Daenerys Targaryen to sit on the Iron Throne, how long would it be before he turned on your independent Kingdom of the North, and those who aided its survival?”

“Daenerys pledged to Jon that she’ll respect our independence,” Davos declared in defence.

“Aye, she did, so I hear,” Baelor agreed. “In return for the birthright she’s lost when her nephew came forth, I hear. That, is politics, Ser Davos. That, is making the most of a situation at hand, in order to achieve a desired outcome. Perhaps Jon Targaryen never wished the Iron Throne for himself, but if he did, I can see how his immediate interest would be served better by securing the alliance of his aunt, considering the armies and dragons at her disposal.”

“If Jon wished to secure that alliance, he could’ve done so much easier by accepting Daenerys’ hand in marriage,” Davos countered once more.

“Perhaps,” Baelor said, “Perhaps not. I wondered about it myself, after Humfrey told me of it. I can see that this Jon Targaryen kept himself separate from his aunt by not agreeing to the marriage.”

“He didn’t agree because it would’ve meant the submission of the North to Daenerys’ rule.”

“Perhaps,” Baelor stopped in front of Davos.

“In any case, tell me true,” he ordered, “on the day Daenerys Targaryen marches her armies and dragons against the North, what will Jon Targaryen do? Where will the loyalty of the former Bastard of Winterfell lie?”

Davos bit his lower lip. He could see already where this was leading, all too well. He could only speak the truth tho, as he knew it, regardless of how it must seem. He said a quick silent apology to Jon.

“He would do all he could to prevent that from happening, my Lord,” he answered.

Baelor shrugged. “Reason with a Targaryen in absolute power, commanding three – apologies, two dragons.”

“One dragon,” Sam interrupted, and Baelor shot him a look that spoke clearly of Sam’s place in this conversation, so much so that poor Sam took a step back in defense.

“Sam speaks truly,” Davos nodded, “Jon commands one of the dragons. He’s its rider.”

Baelor shrugged once more, a slight grin forming in the corner of his mouth. He turned and walked back to his seat. As he turned and sat, that grin on his mouth was way more prominent.

“I will depart to Kings Landing on the morrow,” he said then. “along with my brother and heir, answering the summons of the current ruler, Cersei Lannister.”

Davos’ mind began racing as Baelor continued.

“Queen Cersei summoned all the lords of the Reach and Dorne, and their armies. In support of themselves apparently, considering the fragile state of the Reach.” Baelor’s grin now was accompanied with a knowing look as his eyes were fixed on Davos.

“What do you make of that, Ser Davos?”

“Cersei Lannister has almost no forces left on her own,” Davos said, “Even her brother fights with us, her sellswords follow Jon’s command. I say, she means to collect an army in preparation to the arrival of our forces, or that of the dead.”

“And which forces will arrive,” Baelor raised an eyebrow, “and should it be yours, will they arrive in support of Daenerys Targaryen or his nephew?”

Davos sighed. There was no answer to this that he could give, for how could he know?

“You would have to ask them all one by one,” he said lowly, “For I cannot speak of the mind of others. We all have our preferences.”

“Who is your preference, Ser Davos?”

You walked into this trap, Davos reprimanded himself. “I serve Jon Targaryen, my Lord.”

“And you are an emissary to Sansa Stark,” Baelor waived his answer away, “you are right, Ser Davos, fealties and oaths are complex things, so are the minds of men when it comes to upholding them.”

He leaned back in the chair, studying them both for the first time.

“Here’s my judgement of your matter, Ser Davos,” he said, and Davos stood straight, bracing himself. A price was to be named, and he found himself still unaware of what it could be.

“I march my twenty thousand to Kings Landing, shall be there in a fortnight. I look forward to seal this deal with Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark under the walls of Kings Landing.”

Davos nodded.

“I will provide aid to the North, both in supplies and military aid if needs be. We do aid our family, Ser Davos.”

Family?

“That is, for in return for my aid, there is only one thing your Queen has on offer. I ask for her hand in marriage to my brother Humfrey. Not only that, but I ask for her pledge that she’ll name my brother her King.”

There were simply no thoughts that came to Davos’ mind at hearing that. None at all.

“I’ve no permission to arrange that, my Lord,” he said instead.

“Oh, I know that already,” Baelor laughed. For the first time Davos looked away, to Humfrey. He didn’t know, Davos was certain judging by his furious face. Garth the other brother seemed just as furious, as well.

“Hence why I say, we shall seal our alliance under the walls of Kings Landing. When we defeated Cersei Lannister, and my forces, along with the northmen and your sellswords owing fealty to Jon Targaryen name him King, and subsequently he affirms me as Lord Paramount of the Reach. If not that, then I’ll declare independence. I will fight Redwyne if I have to, Ser Davos, I don’t shy away from the fight. But I would rather prevent further bloodshed of my people, unless it becomes necessary.”

Davos’ eyes grew wide. “Jon doesn’t want that, my Lord.”

“No, he wants the survival of the North,” Baelor said, “I want the survival of my own people, Ser Davos. What are my options? I can join Cersei Lannister in the Red Keep waiting for those damned dragons to burn us all, just as she ordered me to, and Humfrey here would become Lord Hightower. Redwyne will excuse himself, he intends to declare for Daenerys Targaryen, of that I am certain. He’ll be named Lord Paramount after the defeat of Cersei Lannister, and the purge that will follow will decimate the Reach. There’ll be no Tarlys left alive, make no mistake, they’ll be hunted down along with anyone who supported them, including Hightower thanks to my father’s open pledge to protect the mother and sister of Samwell Tarly here – Hells, my father even betrothed Garth to Talla Tarly! I could of course annul that, but what matter does it have? Garth would burn with me in the Red Keep for he is my heir. I could of course declare for Daenerys myself, but considering Redwyne’s position, I’d only hasten the purge he intends on the Reach. Do you see my trouble, Ser Davos? I hear you are a wise man, who advises a wise Targaryen by what little you’ve disclosed to Humfrey and what little rumours can reach us. What do you make of this, Ser Davos?”

Davos took account of what he’s heard. It was a perspective that’s for sure, that he’s never considered, not even when Humfrey explained all that’s happened in great detail, Davos couldn’t see it through. Baelor didn’t opt for independence because of anything else but to prevent Redwyne power, to prevent vengeance carried out That is why Baelor opposed Redwyne for the Lordship Paramount. Davos suddenly felt sympathy for the chubby man, besides the respect he’s already felt as the result of the interrogation he was subjected to. Baelor seemed to have a mind sharp enough for his position.

“I have nothing to say about it,” he said, “From what you tell me, you oppose Lord Redwyne to protect your people against the vengeance for Randyll Tarly’s actions and all that has befallen on the Reach as the result of them. I see that, I can respect that. I am not at all certain that Jon would consider it reason enough to turn against his aunt, but I can see why you see him now as your best possible outcome.”

“Which is why it is the price of my alliance,” Baelor said calmly. “You see, if I don’t have this, I have no reason to consider your request – I have every reason to prepare for my death, though. My instructions to Humfrey will not include unnecessary loss of resources, Ser Davos, our responsibility is with our people, not those of the North. Sansa Stark and the whole of the North can starve to death for all I care, for until our position and survival is secure, I assure you that there’ll be no room to aid the North. Humfrey will be lucky to escape the destruction that will follow.”

Davos eyes once more wandered to Humfrey. The young man’s face was painful, angry, frustrated – all the emotions that Davos have felt. This mission seemed to prove itself a failure.

“Once more,” Davos said, “I am not invested in powers to grant your request.”

“No, you are not,” Baelor smiled, “I said I know it, Ser Davos. But seeing that I must march toward Kings Landing in any case, I may as well offer you my alliance. You shall march alongside me; the roads are not safe for travellers and especially not for a Tarly. We shall see what Queen Sansa and Jon Targaryen have to say about my request, and we shall see the truth in the minds of men when it comes to upholding oaths of fealty then.”

Davos nodded, as Baelor waved them away. Their audience was over. Yet as they rushed toward the door, Baelor called out.

“Samwell Tarly,” he called, and both Sam and Davos turned toward him once more. “I almost forgot that you were here. Heir of Horn Hill, that you are. Humfrey tells me you are to be wed, with a child on the way?”

“Throw this in, I will confirm you as Lord of Horn Hill, Samwell Tarly,” Baelor declared then, “When a King Jon Targaryen confirmed me Lord Paramount of the Reach. I will even uphold my father’s oath of protection of your family. And you will swear your fealty to me as your Paramount.”

He waved once more, and sure enough, Davos and Sam were quickly out the door.

*****

“My Queen?”

Dany turned to look, albeit this voice she could recognise among tens of thousands, hundreds even.

“Come in Ser Jorah,” She said kindly with a smile as much as her dire mood allowed. “Have you come to counsel me once more?”

Ser Jorah returned her smile. “I did. You know me too well, your grace.”

“You come to me whenever I face troubles, and give me counsel,” Dany explained, “Although, not always the wisest counsel. You would’ve never had me march out against the Golden Company, you would’ve never had me ally myself with Jon at all, in fact.”

“I never trusted him,” Ser Jorah said, “That is true. But it’s no reason to name him the traitor who writes these letters, your grace.”

“I don’t believe he is writing those letters, Ser,” Dany sat back in her chair, intently watching the knight who stood in front of her.

“If I may say so,” Ser Jorah spoke, “I also don’t believe it wise to push him or accuse his family. I would counsel you to be patient and wait to see who the traitor is. Wait to see Jon Snow come to you.”

“You spoke with Tyrion,” Dany chuckled.

“I did,” Ser Jorah nodded. “He is your Hand, regardless of how it breaks my heart to name him thus, and he has the mind to guide you wisely. He explained to me your plan with Jon Snow, and again, you made the right choice. By naming Tyrion Lannister Hand as by choosing Jon Snow to be your husband, both.”

“You surprise me, Ser Jorah,” Dany said softly. “I would expect you to protest against both of those things. One man took your position that you earned, the other standing to take the position you wished for.”

“That is true, your grace,” Ser Jorah’s face turned sadder, yet more resolute as he spoke. “But it is the right choice, both of them are. With Jon Snow by your side, no one could doubt you. They’ll see you for what you are, but before they do, they would doubt you and oppose you. With him by your side, you have already won.”

“Is this what Tyrion told you?” Dany asked curiously.

“Not exactly,” Ser Jorah allowed a slight smile to himself, “He talks too much and speaks too many riddles for my taste. But suffice it to say, he convinced me that Jon Snow’s safe survival of this war and affirmation by your side is in your best interest. Your best interest is in my interest, your grace.”

“You sent the Dothraki who were protecting Jon when he received Lord Smallwood by the river,” Dany thought aloud.

“I did,” Jorah nodded.

Dany studied the man. She so often felt pity for him, so much so that there were times in the past when she searched her heart to figure, could she grow to love him like he wished her to? She never found that in herself. She never found Ser Jorah a suitable match, he didn’t entice her, he didn’t inspire her. Jon did. Ser Jorah was a friend, and the best of friends, but still only a friend, and that was all he could ever be.

She knew for a long time that Jorah accepted the position she offered, even if the conversation between them never occurred. As much as Dany could tell, Jorah even found Jon worthy, for all the leadership he’s shown during the war against the dead, Jon has proven himself worthy in the eyes of everyone. Everyone except Varys.

“Who do you think the traitor is?” She asked suddenly and Jorah sighed.

“I cannot tell, your grace,” he said, “I can tell who it is not, in my opinion.”

Daenerys nodded for him to continue, and so he did with a deep breath. “It is not your Lord Hand, of that I am certain, just as much as it not being Sansa Stark or her Hand. Neither is it Jon Snow, or any of the Essosi we brought, for they would care little of such things, they serve you and only you and care little what else is there. For the rest, I cannot be sure, I cannot be sure of it not being the commander of their sellsword forces, and I hear Lady Arya spent a long time in Essos as well and isn’t quite what she portrays herself to be. And I must say, your grace, I am suspicious of Lord Varys in this regard, as well.”

Dany nodded. Of course, she was hoping for an answer affirming what she believed, that the letters are written by Sansa Stark. She would’ve never suspected Lord Reed or Tyrion either, nor Missandei or Grey Worm, and was glad that Jorah saw the same way. She was just as glad of Jorah’s declared support and acceptance of Jon. What she wasn’t glad of was Jorah’s distrust of Varys. Jon distrusted Varys, and Jorah’s opinion couldn’t be ignored as easily as Jon’s, it couldn’t be dismissed as a mere defense of Sansa Stark. Dany herself suspected the Wolf Commander for a long time now, though she couldn’t tell how the man could’ve done it, but that was merely a question of detail. Jon’s words still rang repeatedly in her ears, of the Pentosi merchant Illirio Mopatis who claimed to have an ally close to the Stag King. That could’ve only been Varys.

“Ser Jorah, I ask you to do your own investigation of this matter,” she said then, “Separately from Jon. I trust your advice; I trust your fairness. I would look to you to tell me who the traitor is, whether it’s the Wolf Commander or Varys. Or Sansa Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the culmination of our chats in comments about the reach, my take on it as I could fit it into the story, something I was quite looking forward to do! As for character descriptions, etc - they may contradict canon because I just came up with them 😁


	58. The Trident V.

“You are positively brooding,” Jaime grinned as he reached for his chalice of wine, “Spend an hour with Jon and you even behave like him. Brooding must come with the name. Jon.”

Jaime laughed; his laughter light-hearted and free of any care or worry. He saw no reason why he shouldn’t. The way he saw it, their victory was ‘in the bag’ – he said as much to Griff. “How many men do we have? Sixty or even seventy thousand? We can’t even count our forces anymore,” he said. “What would we have given for this many men when the Wall still stood, hells we would’ve beaten them straight at the wall! We would’ve had no need of this war of attrition, allowing them to take half of Westeros, while we keep attacking them, and keep losing men and land and keeps… I really see no reason for you to be so brooding, Griff. We finally can end this rotting mess of a war; people can return to their homes. There’ll be some kind of peace.”

“Your sister is on the Iron Throne and you speak of peace,” Griff gulped up his wine in one go after he pointed out what could’ve been hypocrisy on Jaime’s part.

“I unswore my fealties, my friend,” Jaime said. “At Greywater Watch, Daenerys asked me, and Jon asked me, and I said the truth. I care not what happens. Though it seems I no longer have a home to return to, with Greywater Watch gone, but perhaps Lord Reed will keep his word. Though he’s Hand of the Queen now. Who knows what will happen?”

“Here’s one thing I care about,” Jaime raised his chalice in the air as if he was to give a toast, “I care about knighthood. I care about that, Griff. I spent twenty fucking years not caring, twenty-five perhaps? I killed Aerys because he was mad, he wanted to burn hundreds of thousands of innocent people who had nothing to do with Lannisters and Starks and Baratheons. I killed him, and ever since there was not a single day that I felt like a knight should. Not until I stood atop the wall and those fuckers attacked. So yeah, if we can end their rotting mess and save the people, I’ll be happy. I’ll die happy, for there is little after it to live for.”

Griff chuckled. “I am positively brooding, aye,” he said as he reached for the jug of wine, “And you are positively drunk, Ser Jaime.”

“When was the last time we got drunk together?” Jaime grinned.

“Oh, let us not remember that!” Griff laughed aloud, “It was the night before I left Kings Landing to fight. You kept cursing Rhaegar in your drunkenness for all the mess, and I kept trying to stay sober enough not to smash your head into the wall.”

“I couldn’t have known,” Jaime said solemnly. “I did wonder if I knew, would I have done anything about it? Perhaps tell my father…”

“Now THAT would’ve made for an even bigger disaster, Ser,” Griff laughed. “Your father was a cunt. For all of them big words about Lions and the Sheep and his fucking gold armour and gold shit, he was a fucking cunt. It wasn’t your brother that killed your father, Ser. It was his fucking Lion pride and stupidity, so full of himself that he didn’t see the arrow coming even after it was launched at him.”

“Tyrion said Father ordered him to return to the bedchamber and talk, not talk to him on the privy,” Jaime said into the chalice.

“Sounds like your father,” Griff nodded, “His boy stands in front of him with a crossbow matching his size and he still tries to give orders. I wonder if he was shitting gold when he died.”

Jaime chuckled. “You’ve no love for my father, that much is clear.”

Griff reached to pat Jaime’s shoulder, “No, and if you will ever see clearly, you’ll have none either. Was he just half decent a man, you and your sister and your brother wouldn’t be half as fucked up as you all are. But you couldn’t have known that. You couldn’t have known a great many things, Ser Jaime. The sheep don’t give two shits about the opinions of the Lion, as it turned out, and they never did. It was all in your father’s head.”

Jaime raised his chalice once more. The words stung, of course they did, but it wasn’t like he didn’t think them many times before. “Here’s to the sheep! Not giving two shits about the Lion!” he said and emptied his chalice.

“There’s one thing you knew, though,” Griff’s demeanour turned to grimmer than before, “You knew that Jon gave up his birthright. You knew it and you allowed me to believe that Rhaegar’s son will take the Iron Throne, that I was serving the purpose Rhaegar wished for. You could’ve told me, Ser Jaime.”

“Tell me true, Griff,” Jaime said, “What do I have?”

Griff merely looked at the man in bewilderment at the absurdity of the question. He was fucking Jaime Lannister, was he not?!

“Nothing is the answer,” Jaime said, “I have Jon’s trust, and because I have it, I can be here, I can be useful. All the fancy golden armour and the name, it’s nothing. It would mean nothing here, and this is the only place for any man to be, Griff, any man who has honour, or had it once and hoped to find it again in himself. That’s all I have, and you’re telling me I should’ve betrayed that trust for your sake. I had orders; I followed those orders.”

“Whose orders,” Griff asked then, “Jon’s, or the Queen’s?”

“A better question would be, which Queen’s, even,” Jaime laughed, “But no, it was Jon who bound us all to silence about it. He knew you for your loyalty long before you met him, I presume, for as it turns out, he fought with Blackfyre since this war begun.”

“What about Edric Snow?” Griff asked curiously and Jaime grinned, widely.

“You are choosing a side, Griff.”

Griff studied the man. He kept wondering about Jaime Lannister’s purpose, what could drive this man to fight, to lead them, aid Targaryens… As far as Griff could tell, he had no wish and no chance of returning to his sister-lover. But surely enough, was it Daenerys Targaryen who succeeded her on the Iron Throne, lenience towards Jaime Lannister was quite questionable. Perhaps Lord Hand Tyrion would intercede on his behalf. No, Griff concluded, Jaime followed Jon, he said as much just now in his drunken state. Which could’ve meant only one thing.

“I’ve chosen a side when I knelt in front of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Griff declared, “I swore fealty to him and his brood.”

“Then make sure you survive,” Jaime whispered.

“You are the second man today to tell me that,” Griff countered.

“The first being Edric Snow,” Jaime finished his sentence. They stared at each other, before they both burst out in laughter. How absurd this was, both men realised, them sitting in a tent drinking themselves away, waiting for an army to arrive.

“Shit,” Griff jumped, almost losing balance. “I forgot the errand; the sun is almost down.”

“Surely them golden soldiers can count themselves for once,” Jaime called after him as he left the tent. When Griff didn’t return, he also stood, carefully, testing his balance before he paced out, only to bump into Griff right at the entrance.

“You say you value Jon’s trust,” Griff said lowly, “I value it too, it is rather hard to win, and I don’t think I have won it yet. And I’ve not found them fucking captains yet, either, and Jon tasked me to find Lysono’s killer, too. Enough idleness for one day, Ser.”

“And you riding around drunk will win you Jon’s favour,” Jaime laughed.

“No, it won’t,” Griff joined the laughter. He waved two men to them, swiftly ordering them to do the counting, to report even the slightest thing amiss at the end. The men – boys – eagerly took to the task rushing away.

“New recruits,” Jaime noted, “I keep seeing them around camp.”

“We came right from a contract,” Griff explained, “We lost quite a few, we were representing a certain Pentosi against the Windblown. If you ask me, war is brewing in Essos – Daenerys Targaryen may have set things in motion serving an example for others.”

“Anyways, we had a recruiting campaign since Cersei bought twenty thousand, and we were to deliver twenty thousand, that was the deal with the Iron Bank… there are about two thousand of them boys. They’re young and eager, and I pity them for they cannot imagine the foe they will encounter in their first battle.”

Jaime hummed, trying for his alcohol-fuelled mind to take it in. He never wondered about how the company kept its number, after all, they were continuously fighting… “I thought you breed like the Snows do,” he said.

Griff laughed. “No, my friend, we take no wives, most of us don’t,” Griff explained, “Though it’s on the table, if we were to settle, I suppose.”

“If?”

“I cannot share with you all our matters now, can I?” Griff grinned, his hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “First we have to survive fighting dead men. And perhaps more, who knows, for neither you nor Edric tells me anything but to stay alive.”

“I doubt anyone knows what comes after,” Jaime remarked. “It is as you see it. You, Edric Snow, and I, and perhaps others as well, we are hoping for something that may not happen. Even the Queen in the North is unaware of our little makeshift alliance.”

“What about Lord Reed?”

Jaime chuckled, then suddenly looked around, much to Griff’s amusement. “Lord Reed wants the same thing we all want. But he seems unwilling to act, and now he is Hand to Sansa Stark… But Reed watches and sees everything, I am sure of it.”

“What does that even mean,” Griff laughed, “He won’t be growing wings, surely.”

Jaime didn’t respond, but instead nodded toward the raven still on a tree branch nearby. Suddenly Griff understood. Jaime told him before about Reed warging, using ravens… “Is it Reed?”

“Who knows?”

Griff was stunned, so stunned that Jaime burst out laughing at the sight of his face expression. “You better get used to this. There’s rumour about Jon being able to do it, too. He’s got a direwolf, some of the Winterfell servants claimed that he could warg into it if he so wished.”

Griff only stared at the raven, and as Jaime joined him, they both wondered about whether they watched out of paranoia, or indeed they were being watched. The raven was still, unphased by their attention. But suddenly, it looked, straight at them, straight into their drunken gaze.

*****

Davos woke to hushed voices. It’s been surely hours since they returned to their room at the Inn, and he must’ve dozed off. It’s not like there was anything else to do. Sam was so painfully silent, and Davos so drained from the experience and the lack of sleep the night before, mixed with the arbor red they all consumed alongside their hearty supper.

He listened. Sam Tarly was hushing. About some maid.

“She’s quite strong willed I’d say, but a Queen has to be like that. I saw her train and fight with a sword, and she is a lady, she does that because she wants to lead from the front, I think… She’s quite a lady. In truth, I’ve not seen anyone quite like a lady as she is. You’ll like her, I am sure of it.”

“But is she comely?”

Davos smiled. Humfrey Hightower was in their room, no doubt enquiring after Sansa Stark now that his Lord brother dropped it so suddenly on all of them that Humfrey’s marriage is the prize he demands for the aid they sought from him.

“Even more so,” Sam said, “Sure you must’ve heard tales?”

“I did,” Humfrey whispered, “I never paid much attention to them, to be honest. What does she look like?”

“Well,” This will be something, Davos thought to himself, Sam Tarly looking for words to describe the beauty of Sansa Stark to his friend. “She is tall, and slender, actually, quite tiny waisted. That matters I suppose, mother always told Talla not to eat too much cake to keep her waist tiny. Queen Sansa favours lemon cakes, Jon told me once, though I’ve not seen them served, perhaps because we were always on rations, the lords and ladies, too.”

“She has long auburn hair, and pale skin, and she has pale eyes like you do…” Sam sighed, “Ahhh, I am no poet, how could I describe to you?”

“There is simply no fairer maid in the North,” Davos said, as he opened his eyes, to look at the two startled youngsters. “And it is good that you outmatch both your brothers in height, for else your wife would be taller than you. That is, if she agrees to the match.”

“I didn’t know,” Humfrey said then, “I swear to you Ser Davos, I didn’t know. I knew he’ll demand a high prize, he even told me something like, now his little brother will finally become something. Baelor isn't a cruel man, you must believe me, he isn't a scheming man, he wouldn't be like this, it's just... it's as he said, he tries to keep the people safe, including us. He loves me, he thinks he's done something good to me with this, and now Garth is even more furious with me than usual for he argues that it should be him, and not me who becomes King. But I never wanted to be something, I never wanted to be a Lord. Or a King.”

“Aye, Sam told me you wanted to be a sellsword,” Davos smiled as he rose from the bed to join them, taking a chalice to pour himself some more of that Arbor red the two were already consuming.

“If I speak true, I’d still rather be a sellsword than a King,” Humfrey declared, “What are Kings, all they do is deal with the shit others throw at them, and it’s not like they can use their swords when they had enough of the shit. No, I’d rather be a sellsword, free to do whatever I want, to decide whom I contract myself to and when. I never really wanted to wed, if I did, I would be already wed.”

“I presume there were many offers,” Davos said as he sat.

“Which is odd, really, is it not?” Humfrey asked, “I’m the youngest, there’s Baelor, and then Garth. Redwyne offered Desmera to me, I told you. Father was eager to arrange it, so when I refused, he offered Garth. But Redwyne declined Garth, which is quite odd.”

“I presume you don’t share mothers,” Davos said, “For you have looks for women to swoon about, and well, your brothers do not. That is why, my boy, it’s as simple as that.”

“I doubt looks would be enough for a Queen to wed me on demand,” Humfrey said, “We shall see. Perhaps she’ll decline, I would understand that. Who is my brother to demand her in marriage, when she’s already had two quite ill-fated marriages?”

Davos and Sam shared a glance.

“Queen Sansa is a practical woman, Humfrey, wise for her tender age,” Davos said reassuringly, “And very responsible. She knows her duty, if she feels that it is right for her to accept Lord Baelor’s offer, she will. Though I doubt she will do so without meeting you.”

“I wouldn’t do so without meeting her,” Humfrey declared. “That is why I came, to tell you and Sam that we shall ride forth, as soon as we leave the Reach we shall ride forth and so I shall meet this Queen in the North, before my brother spoils it with his demands. He agreed to it but forbade the disclosure of his demands.”

“That is good then,” Davos said, “I see no harm in it.”

*****

Jon brushed back an unruly lock of hair that broke free, as he sighed. Slowly they were grouping in the command tent. Jon once thought the tent to be spacious, but now he had to disagree. Once more it was time to hold a war council with so many that they didn’t fit around the table that held the map.

He looked around. Sansa, Arya, Lord Reed, Edric Snow. The North was represented wholly. Grey Worm and Missandei, Lord Tyrion, Ser Jorah and. Varys the Spider, Jon wanted to snarl at the man for some reason, like a child would. Daenerys just entered the tent, so her company was at full count, as well. Griff stood by Jon’s side on the right. Missing were Sam and Ser Davos, the Greyjoy siblings… The Vale took direct command from Sansa following the loss of Hornwood, same for any northmen not of Winterfell. Tormund took to scout, but apart from that, they were all coming together. There were no lordlings to whinge this time. Sandor Clegane, Brienne of Tarth entered, and Daenerys raised an eyebrow. Jon’s eyes wandered to Jaime Lannister on his left, seemingly relieved at the sight of Ser Brienne, and he chuckled.

“Everyone’s here,” he said, “There’ll be no lengthy debate, or so I hope. As always, those of you with experience, do speak up. Other than that, I tell you the plan, you take position, send out your scouts and establish communication lines. Attack when you hear the call,” He said, raising his Wolf-horn in his hand, “Keep this in mind, three short blasts mean retreat. If I blow more short blasts than that, I am only calling on the direwolves.”

They all nodded, even Varys did, and Jon allowed himself a slight smile, and a level of confidence as he leaned to look at the map.

“The company,” he turned to Griff, “How are you doing with my orders?”

“There’ll be three planks at the ready by sundown,” Griff answered, and Jon nodded in appreciation.

“Good,” he looked around once more, “Here’s how I see this. They come from the north down the Kingsroad, the Unsullied will be the bait. They’ll camp between the road and the island, drawing them to the island. Once engaged, we’ll close around them in circle. It’ll be like White Harbor, if all goes well,” he looked up at Dany who nodded.

“We’ll burn them all,” she declared.

“The Golden Company has the right flank, with your elephants and the like. It’s going to be the toughest fight, for you have to block them from the road. You must hold position, and push them into this field, here…” his finger circled around the small patch between the Kingsroad and the Gods Eye. “Push them, but stay clear as much as possible, else you burn with them. Two long blasts are your sign to attack, you have command, Griff.”

Varys’ face flinched at hearing that. 

“All riders of the Wolves, the Lions and the Vale will be under Ser Jaime’s command, behind the Unsullied. Let the dead reach their planks and ditches, before you emerge, and close them off. Cover the unsullied, for they cannot hold without that cover. The call sign is three long blasts, the sign of dead approaching. Grey Worm will blow it first to summon his men to formation but wait for my horn with the attack.”

Ser Jaime nodded, and for the first time, there was no huffing and puffing, no discontent about his position. Jon allowed a smile.

Once they are engaged by Griff, they’ll be closed off from the island as well, both north and south. Edric, that is your task. It’s muddy ground, your work with the crannogmen will prove useful once more. When you here the call sign for Griff, you may begin.”

“I’ll blow the horn only once, Ser Jorah, one long blast,” Jon said looking up, “You have command of the Dothraki, to close off the dead from the rear, prevent any attempt at retreat. Beware, the wights tend to stay back to watch, it won’t be an easy task.”

“Once the circle is complete, Daenerys and I will take to the skies. When you see dragons, prepare, I will blow retreat to signal you to keep distance. We’ll then burn them in the circle.”

“Wights don’t burn, and the Night King doesn’t burn. The goal is to annihilate the army and burn our dead. Do retreat for Dany to be able to burn your dead, else you’ll burn with them, or worse, you’ll have to fight them. I’ll land on the island. There’ll be planks to join me, Griff’s men are laying them. But please, only join me if I failed, kill him. I can’t tell you how, but kill him. If I fail, you must.”

He turned to Sansa. “I want you, Arya, Reed with Brienne and the Hound south of the battlefield. I want Missandei, Lord Tyrion and Varys there with you, as well. You are in charge, Sansa.”

“Of what?” Sansa asked.

“Of saving yourselves if this all goes sour,” Jon explained, “I want you to survive, and Daenerys wants her advisors to survive. There’s nothing more to it, you will not fight in this battle, none of you will and that is an order.”

“Apart from that, be ready to receive any wounded, prepare the maesters, you know what to do.” Sansa bit her lower lip as she nodded. Today there was no one to oppose Jon, in any way. It seemed so unnatural; Jon almost yearned for an argument.

“Anything to add?” He asked, but only silence came as they all shook their heads.

“This is all, then,” Jon said, “Thank you.” They all began to leave the tent, leave Jon with his map and his thoughts, he felt, somewhat too eagerly, hastily. This council was odd, to say the least. It couldn’t have been called a council in fact. It was only Jon speaking and them listening, as if they had nothing to offer. It made Jon wonder, what was amiss.

He watched as Daenerys whispered something to Missandei at the entrance of the tent, in a language he couldn’t even pretend to understand. High Valyrian, perhaps. Missandei left, as Dany turned toward Jon.

“I’ve not asked you to spare my advisors,” she declared, yet her voice was warm, soft, in the tone she used to use when they were alone. Before they began to only bicker about traitors and ribbons, Jon reminded himself.

“No, you have not,” he smiled in return, “But I figured if I want to do that, you would as well.”

“Not everyone is equal in our eyes, are they,” she sighed, “We send tens of thousands into danger facing dead men and bears and ice spiders and whatnot, and we save our precious few.”

“This is war,” Jon said, acknowledging her words, “I’ve lost count of our dead a long time ago. The precious few we need to rebuild for any who will survive this war, and I would save them all if I could, but someone has to fight. Soldiers have to fight; commanders have to lead their men in battle. That is the way.”

“I don’t disagree,” she smiled at him, “I merely shared the thought that occurred in my mind. I wanted to thank you for the effort to save my advisors, I appreciate it.”

“I know,” Jon whispered, as he stepped closer to Dany, “Perhaps we need to talk about other things as well.”

“After the battle is won,” she said, “We both need to focus now. You need to focus now, you are our Leader, and you are this Prince Promised to defeat HIM. Forget anything else, Jon. We’ll talk after the battle.”

Jon smiled nodding, and she left the tent. What had just occurred, he wondered. What happened to all of them? Weren’t they always bickering, always trying to bend his will to theirs, to make themselves and their opinions known to him? What was wrong, he couldn’t tell.

He looked at the map, studying the battlefield. It was such a simple plan. Of course, in battle it won’t be so simple. This won’t be like the narrow pass to Last Hearth, where they orderly marched into the trap. They must have learned something; HE must anticipate something. They must be completely convincing to fool the Night King and the dead once more, Jon reminded himself.

In a way, the loss of Greywater Watch served the living. It was so severe, the marshes so unforgiving, that while the fights concluded, Jon was certain that the Night King was somewhat at loss of whatever happened to his enemy. Since then, Jon kept fair distance, and no scouts appeared, no dead ravens came to sight. Of course, an army of dead men and beasts have no need to rely on much scouting, Jon knew. They didn’t scout when they approached Winterfell, he recalled.

But that was what made him weary. They didn’t scout, because they had a plan, and they fooled the living, they fooled him. They went for White Harbor and Jon knew nothing of it until the battle ended, and he’s had time to put two and two together. He cannot make that mistake now. He lost Bran because of that mistake, and truly, he’s had no one to lose. His thoughts wandered away at that. He ordered those he meant to protect into safety, but safety was quite relative in a battle. Who will he lose? And from those who will fight, who’ll end up as a corpse burned by dragonfire after they fell? Jon sighed deeply at the thought.

Perhaps this was what leadership was about, the acceptance that you send any and everyone into their deaths, and they may not return. Except, in this war, even that wasn’t true, was it? They may return, as blue-eyed corpses, to take their revenge for sending them to their deaths.

His gaze fell on his wrist, and the neatly tied ribbon. It used to be so dirty that the colours were hardly visible. Sansa washed it, and tied it on his wrist. He asked her to tie it on his wrist. Why, he could not tell. Perhaps Dany is right, perhaps he should take it off, but he had no heart to. Perhaps he will take it off, once Sansa is safely back in the North, she’ll forget him and he’ll carry on with whatever life will become like, and he’ll take it off. Because part of him wants to. Another part of him would protest though, he knew.

He recalled their talk now, namely the part about it that mattered. The part where Sansa did exactly what Jon told Dany that she did, she told Jon to go and do whatever he wanted. Her words struck a chord so deep within him, not because of love, but because of how those very words made him feel. Never had anyone said such a thing to him. “You want to be free. I want to tie you down, and she wants to tie you down, we all want to do it, and all you want is to be free. So, go and do whatever you want, and be free. I won’t tie you down, there’s nothing to ask of you. Just go and do what you feel is right for you, but do it for you. Not for anyone else.”

That’s when Jon learned what love must be like, not sisterly love or that of a lover, but love, in general, true love, the kind that Jon thought old poets and bards sang about, surviving all kinds of hardships. It must be hard for someone to say such a thing, for all Jon knew, but it didn’t seem hard for Sansa to say those words. It seemed so natural, so… accepted. Jon felt accepted, too, like never before, thanks to those words being said. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was for them, but there were no words to describe it. So, he just asked for his ribbon back. For a little while longer, he told himself, knowing that it didn’t mean the certainty of him ever taking it off. Perhaps he will.

He rolled up the map, his mind somewhat calmer now, less occupied by the oddity of today’s council and why suddenly everyone seemed to be so amicable and obedient. He packed up and left the tent.

As he stepped out into the open, he looked around. The men were buzzing, surely the news that they finally were beginning to prepare to fight were exciting them. War was hard, fight and loss was hard on the men, but retreating endlessly was even harder. They were restless, Jon knew it. In a way he counted on it, for this last stand. He wanted them to be eager to fight, to take that stand with him.

His eyes caught a raven above, rising slowly, steadily. Reed must be going on a scout, too, perhaps.

And yet, as he turned and began his short walk back to his tent, he saw Reed standing right in front of him, talking to Edric and some of his few crannogmen that he had left. He was not scouting. Jon’s eyes returned to the raven rising higher. Turning above him. He narrowed his eyes.

A scroll. He could see the glimmer of white, just about.

“Shoot down that raven!” He shouted as loud as he could, and Reed turned, Edric and the crannogmen, the surrounding wolves and Lannisters all turned toward him. He pointed at the raven, “Shoot the bloody raven, now!”

Edric grabbed a bow and arrow from a stunned Lannister and aimed swiftly, but he aimed too low. He tried again, too low.

A third arrow flew, and a fourth, distracting the raven. Then a fifth.

It found its mark, piercing a wing, the raven falling, struggling to remain in flight. Another arrow finished it off and it finally fell to the ground, just as Jon and the others reached the spot where it would hit.

Jon was right. A tiny scroll was attached to the leg of the raven. He looked up, at a Lannister still holding the arrow. “Thank you,” he murmured to the stunned man, likely wondering what it was with Jon wanting to shoot down messengers as they all watched him crouching down, removing the scroll, unrolling and reading it.

When he stood, his face spoke clearly of the fury he felt within. “This never happened,” he hissed. “You hear me?! All of you, if you dare speak of it, I swear you’ll share the fate of the one who wrote this.”

With that, he turned and left them, straight to the ravenry.


	59. The Gods Eye I.

“I swear it, Howland…” Jon hissed, still pacing, still fuming, no matter how Reed have tried to calm him for the better part of the past hour. “I swear by the old Gods and the new Gods, and the drowned god and the Lord of Right, by every fucking deity that has a single temple in Volantis, I swear I’ll destroy the man who betrays me.”

“That is a quite elaborate oath, even for you,” Reed chuckled. “There are hundreds of deities with a temple in Volantis, but I am not sure the weeping maid of Lys would care much about your traitor.”

“Dany will be furious,” Jon sighed, “She’s already convinced of all kinds of silliness about all of you! And Sansa. Mostly Sansa.”

“That is very unlikely to change, Jon,” Reed smiled in understanding, as he once more gestured for Jon to sit, once more to be denied with a huff as Jon began to pace even faster.

“What is it with women?!” He cried out, “Why can’t they just fucking get along like everyone else? Why can’t Dany?”

“You don’t suspect…”

“Sansa?” Jon stopped mid-step giving Reed a stern look. “I know Sansa doesn’t care. Not anymore.”

“I am not privy to the Queen’s heart, Jon,” Reed explained himself.

No one is, Jon added silently, only to himself.

“I know it because I spoke to her.” Jon took a deep breath, “We talked about it, and we agreed a way forward that allows both of us to keep our sanity. That is all you need to know.”

“Then why don’t you tell Queen Daenerys?”

“I told her,” Jon’s gaze turned more and more desperate as the chain of thought that followed took form, until it all burst out once more, “I told her, and she doesn’t believe me. And now, how am I supposed to tell her that I caught a fucking raven with a fucking scroll that basically explains my battleplan, within the hour of the council?! And I don’t even know who sent it?! Because that gods damned boy at the ravenry had to piss! She’s certain it’s Sansa!”

He returned to his pacing, and this time Reed didn’t interrupt him. It was the fourth time he said these same things. It may have looked as if he was merely letting off the steam, but his mind was racing. Reed was on the field, so was Edric, right there in front of Jon, with Reed. They’ve been successfully proven not to be his traitor, if only Dany would believe him. But Dany suspected Sansa, and…

“Lord Reed?”

Jon almost jumped, then laughed, at the awkwardness and absurdity of how Sansa appeared at the entrance of the tent just when her name appeared in his chain of thought.

Sansa startled just as much. “I can come back, it’s not…”

“No, stay,” Jon ushered her in. “Howland is your Hand; I am the intruder here.”

Reed stood, offering his armchair to his Queen, helping her to sit. Jon watched. It was going far better than it used to. Her limping was far less prominent, he noticed that earlier, and now this further sign of recovery somewhat calmed his heart.

“Perhaps we three ought to talk while I change the linen on the queen’s wound,” Reed smiled at Sansa, who nodded.

As he looked at Jon however, he saw the discomfort that settled. So he spoke, “Your grace, there was a raven, Jon caught it rising and it was shot down. It carried a scroll, albeit I’ve not read it – Jon allows none to read it. Anyways, considering the implications of the scroll, before anyone asks, it would be wise to discuss where the Lady Arya and you went after council.”

Sansa sighed.

“This isn’t necessary, Howland,” Jon said lowly. “I don’t suspect Sansa at all. Or Arya.”

“No, but Queen Daenerys does,” Sansa said firmly. “I know it, you don’t have to deny. It was made plainly clear after the last scroll.”

Jon nodded, biting on his lower lip. It’s true, there was no point in denying it.

“Arya and Brienne and I went to the riverbank, to wash,” Sansa explained calmly, “We weren’t alone either, Peat was there along with some of the knights of the Vale nearby, as well as Missandei and that Unsullied commander, they were sitting by the riverbank. We were clearly visible, except when we washed of course. Unless anyone suspects either of us to run around in our smallclothes to send ravens, I don’t see how either of us could’ve.”

Reed and Sansa both looked at Jon then. Reed already began to unwrap Sansa’s hand, and when Jon failed to answer, his eyes fixed on her hand, he continued. Soon Jon saw what he dreaded yet wanted to see.

Sansa’s hand was indeed heeling, but it was severely damaged. Reed one by one tried to straighten her fingers, accompanied by her hissing. Thanks to the tiny neat stiches, it didn’t look near as bad as Jon imagined it after seeing how it was. Was it left the way the maester left it, it would be useless for sure.

Reed has put his hand in hers, and Sansa tried to squeeze it, again and again. Jon realised that they were training the hand. She tried to straighten the fingers by herself, then close her fist, then straighten them again, while Reed already began to mix the familiar smelling liquid. Perhaps the wounds weren’t fully closed yet, Jon thought. But he knew he didn’t want to stay; he knew what was coming. Reed will pour the liquid on her hand, and she’ll be in pain, for minutes. Jon studied her face, the resolute expression with which she worked her hand, occasionally hissing, pressing close her lips. No, he didn’t want to watch any longer.

“I better go,” he said.

“See to it that you speak to that unsullied commander, Jon,” Reed responded without looking at him. “See if he confirms what you’ve heard, and if he does… well if I were you, I would drag the boy in front of Daenerys to repeat it.”

Jon merely nodded. He felt like a stupid little boy. And he felt ashamed, having to prove something he was so certain of. It was only made worse by how practical, even cold Sansa was about it, as it if was the most natural thing to have to explain herself this way. Jon suddenly felt that he could not bear it a minute longer, so he turned without a word, and left the tent.

*****

“The pressure is getting to him again,” Sansa remarked as soon as Jon was gone. “This betrayal… it must be hard on him. Because of the Watch.”

“Well, your testimony has effectively ruled out the North, so he can feel relieved about that,” Reed smiled. “This will…”

“Hurt,” Sansa noted, “I know, Howland, just do it.”

Reed began washing her hand with a soaked linen. He didn’t pour the liquid he mixed on her skin; he didn’t have sufficient supplies for it anymore. So, he figured, since the wounds are almost closed, this will do. Soon enough there’ll be no need for linens, and the queen will be able to begin training the hand in earnest. Reed was hopeful about it. They often talked during these sessions about what damage may linger, and it warmed Reed’s heart every time. Sansa accepted no damage to remain, no limitation to the use of her hand. It was during these sessions that Reed realised just how strong his Queen actually is. He had a good idea before – after all, she survived months of abuse at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, and years in Kings Landing with all the torment the Lannisters allowed themselves.

Reed learned that she wanted to sew again, she wanted to have full use of the hand including the intricate work of dressmaking. She’s made her dresses; she’s made many of Jon and Arya’s clothing as well. She seemed to become almost like a little girl, excited and enthusiastic, whenever she spoke about it, how to beat the nails into the leather, the best way to stitch up the edge of the linen so it will fray.

He finished.

“What infuriates me,” Sansa began to speak, her voice still a little weak from the lingering pain in her hand, “is how Varys was so eager to explain how any of us could’ve written those messages. Even Jon! Why would Jon even consider doing such a thing, Jon doesn’t care about power for power’s sake. The only people who really crave power are Varys. And Daenerys, I suppose, though she would never write such things. The messages undermine her, and they put Jon at risk. What if she stops trusting him?”

“I believe that is why the letters are being written, Sansa,” Howland said softly. “Not everything is what it seems. There are well over fifty thousand men in this army who would answer a call from Jon against anyone, including Daenerys.”

Sansa chuckled.

“Let me add that up,” she laughed, “The Golden Company, of course. Jaime Lannister?”

Reed nodded.

“And…” Sansa raised her eyebrows, triumphant gleam on her cheeks, “It seems my little conversation with Edric also had the effect I intended, perhaps a little too well,” she declared.

Reed only nodded once more. Sansa hummed, nodding, acknowledging what she’s just put together for herself.

“Shall we do something about it?”

“Nothing,” Reed said as he reached for the needle. This was the trickiest part, often ending in laughter. Two one-armed people trying to thread a tiny needle. Reed would hold it, while Sansa would try to insert the thin linen thread through the miniscule hole at its top. They must’ve become experts, for this time, they managed first time. They both nodded at each other in acknowledgement of the achievement.

“You are doing what you are supposed to do,” Reed said, “You are working to secure the survival of the North. Do not get involved.”

“Jon may have need of them soon enough,” Sansa sighed.

“Which is why it is imperative to do what we are doing,” Reed said, “What Sam and Davos are doing. It’s imperative that we don’t become a prey, whatever unfolds we need friends, other than those loyal to Jon, we need to distance ourselves.”

“I know, Howland,” Sansa whispered.

“I know that you know,” Reed smiled, “And I didn’t even have to counsel you to know. Whatever unfolds, we need to be able to respond independently.”

“I doubt a little grain will make us a strong kingdom,” Sansa raised an eyebrow as she spoke.

“No, it won’t. The connection to the Reach might,” Reed said.

“So you agree with me, now I know,” she said as she stood, before Reed could move to help her up from the chair.

“I am not sure I follow,” Reed laughed, “I fear you lost me.”

“It is only a theory,” Sansa said dismissively, “I don’t want to put it into your head, I am not certain of it. What I am certain of is, the letters put Jon at risk, and thirty thousand soldiers are just as many reasons for that to go wrong. You said once that Jon Connington must have an even stronger conviction than you had. All it needs is a spark and there’ll be a rebellion in the camp.”

Reed stood stunned, truly stunned. He often found himself struggling to keep up the pace with his Queen, just as many times wondering how he didn’t manage to put the pieces together the way she did. Every time he found himself listening to something that should’ve been obvious to him from the outset. This was just one of those times.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” he said lowly, “Forgive me. I thought it to be nothing but childish bickering. I told Jon as much.”

“You know,” Sansa began with an apologetic smile, “Littlefinger was a snake, but I learned a lot from him. He’s told me once, I should ask myself, what are someone’s motives to do what they do? And pick the worst.”

“What could be the worst reason to write those letters?” She didn’t wait for an answer, “To divide Jon and Daenerys, make Jon vulnerable to Daenerys’ temper.”

“Who would benefit from it?” Reed stood still, looking at her stunned, as she continued, “If Jon has Daenerys’ ear, someone does not. If Jon can control her, someone cannot.”

“Why?” Reed asked.

“Because if Jon gains influence over Daenerys, he’ll be able to convince her to fight anyone, Howland,” Sansa explained, “He’s convinced her to accept Jaime Lannister, even trust him. He has her ear, that much is plainly obvious. Someone must be desperate to end that.”

Reed had nothing to say in response.

“I will speak with Daenerys,” Sansa declared, “In fact, I shall speak with her straight away.”

“That may be a good idea, or it may be disastrous,” Reed protested, “She may listen, or may think you are scheming against her advisors. She may not believe you so easily and you’ve got no proof still. That was why Jon kept pacing here for an hour, he’s got no proof.”

“I will do what Jon would do,” Sansa said firmly, “I will speak the truth, as it is.”

*****

Davos pulled the cape tighter around him, neatly tucking the edges in around his thighs. There were times when his long garments were most suitable, riding in cold weather was not one of the things they aided well. He chuckled to himself at what a sorry emissary he’s proven to be. Not only was he completely useless against Baelor Hightower, but he’s even had to be dressed.

Not that he asked for it, no. Humfrey Hightower was at the Inn just as the first rays of the sun began to lighten the sky, with two enormous sacks carried by two of his guards. Davos liked the boy more and more. He explained to them in no uncertain terms that their cocks will freeze off if they attempt this march in the clothing they arrived in, for it’ll be fast galop of twenty thousand, they ought to be ready. Davos couldn’t have agreed more – Jon’s galloping night retreats taught him as much, one of the things he was glad to miss was not having to retreat to the Gods Eye with the army.

So now he’s had knitted stockings and leather pants, jerkin and something that he’s never seen, some giant knitted thing with two arms. Howland Reed would admire the thing, judging by the attire they all wore at Greywater Watch… he had to pull it over his head and put the jerkin over it. Humfrey told them to wear their chain mail under it, but they had no chain mail. Humfrey told them, they call it the pullover, and he explained that the idea was brought from Essos not long ago and they all took to it. Davos didn’t have to think about why they did.

They also received gloves and capes, so now they were well dressed for the march ahead.

He turned back to see the familiar sight of an army preparing. Twenty thousand men, Baelor brought out the majority of his forces. Earlier he rode by, and asked Davos what he thinks of the escort. Said, Cersei wrote to bring his escort, for Cersei’s armies are on the field. Well, he brings his escort, he said, he obeys the command to the letter!

In truth, Baelor didn’t seem half as unbearable as he was during the interrogation that people here might call an audience. He seemed to be in great spirits, and his men seemed to like him enough. For one so obviously used to the feasting and the wine, he didn’t seem to shy away from this march or any impending battle, just as he said he wouldn’t. In fact, he seemed to thrive, as if he couldn’t wait to get on with it, spill some blood. Eager, that’s what Humfrey said the night they met, Baelor was eager after waiting for so long to come to his inheritance. It showed.

Davos’ eyes found Sam and Humfrey in the crowd, or more like, they showed themselves as they made their way towards him with fifty men in tow.

“We are the vanguard,” Humfrey cried out as they neared, and Davos nodded. Sam smiled shyly, it seemed to Davos that the boy was overly concerned about his name and status after so many questioning looks from everyone. No one dared to speak ill to him, though, which surprised Davos, until he reminded himself what he’s learned. Hightower offered protection to the Tarlys – these were the men who vowed to protect Sam’s mother and sister following their Lord. Davos wasn’t sure now if a public declaration of it by Lord Leyton was wise though, but it was what it was. Sam was safe, so were his mother and sister.

“I must tell you, Ser Davos,” Humfrey grinned, “I wish I could join the fight against the dead. I know they’ll be defeated, but I wish you arrived sooner. I want to see them ice spiders.”

“You would unwish it once you saw them,” Davos said kindly. Oh, these youngsters.

“War makes people forget how naïve our young are,” he said, and both Humfrey and Sam turned to listen intently.

“You are both young and naïve in so many ways,” Davos explained, “and in many ways, you should not be fighting dead men and ice spiders.”

“Jon is of my age,” Sam declared, “And he’s leading the fight!”

“Aye, he does,” Davos nodded, “And you know well how it affected him.”

“It is the times, Ser Davos,” Humfrey said, “In father’s youth, he often said how idle they all were. These are not idle times, so we cannot be idle. We have to do our share.”

“And you are eager to do your share,” Davos countered, “Until you’ve done it, and you paid the price for it and you sit and wonder what you’ve lost. Believe me, idle times would be better for all of us. For you two to enjoy your youth, and for me to save my aging bones from days of riding and the like; and enjoy my elderly years.”

“Ser Davos,” Humfrey grinned, “If one is idle in their youth, and they are idle in their elderly years, when would anyone get anything done?”

Davos raised his eyebrows at that, glancing at a grinning Sam, before his gaze returned to Humfrey. He didn’t expect this twist, truly he did not.

“Well said, Humfrey, well said,” he laughed it off, just as the horn sounded, “So now we all get on the road to do exactly the opposite of idleness.”

As he said the columns began to move, quickly picking up pace. He could hear Humfrey beside him, “Worry not Ser Davos! It shall be an adventure!”

*****

Sansa walked steadily, breathing heavily, hoping her nervousness didn’t show. Closely followed by four crannogmen, at Reed’s insistence following her refusal to bring Reed himself with her, she made her way straight toward the tent guarded by two unsullied.

“I wish to speak with your Queen,” she said sternly as soon as she stopped in front of the entrance. The unsullied just looked at her, and she began to wonder whether they understood her. Then one of them hit the ground with his lance before he disappeared in the tent. Sansa wondered why he’s hit the ground. Perhaps to signal that he was to enter?

Soon he reappeared, holding the flap open for her. She nodded as thank you while he entered.

Daenerys sat at a table completely identical to the one in her tent, in a chair that was just as identical as hers. Her eyes scanned the tent, taking it in, but there was nothing special about it. There also weren’t any signs of Jon here.

“You wished to speak to me, lady Sansa,” Daenerys spoke, waiving for her to sit.

“That is Queen Sansa, your grace,” Sansa responded, motionless.

“Forgive me,” Dany smiled, “Merely an innocent mistake, your grace. Would you care to sit?”

Sansa took a deep breath as she nodded and took a seat.

“I am glad to see that you are steadily healing,” Dany said then, “I am sure Jon is quite pleased with your progress.”

“I am sure he has no time to be pleased about anything, your grace,” Sansa said before she could catch herself. Daenerys was trying to be pleasant.

“I only meant, he is the leader. We shall fight soon,” she explained, her voice much softer than before, “I am sure he is busy preparing for battle.”

“I am sure he is,” Dany smiled, “I must admit that I am quite surprised by your visit, your grace.”

Sansa allowed herself a smile. “I would be as well, if I were you, your grace,” she responded, “But I recall once you told me, you hoped for us to be friends. that is why I thought, perhaps an honest conversation is in order, your grace.”

Daenerys merely nodded for her to continue.

“I am not the author of those letters, your grace. Your own unsullied commander could testify to this fact, for he has seen me at the time Jon has caught the raven, along with my sister and Ser Brienne. I am told that Lord Reed and Lord Edric were both in Jon’s presence at the time. I came to share with you something that Littlefinger has taught me.”

Daenerys’ face has already turned stern, the smile long gone. She said nothing, so Sansa took a deep breath and continued. “He was the biggest schemer I’ve ever known, your grace. He’s told me, whenever he wondered about what motive someone has to do what they do, he thought of the worst reason. And who would benefit from that reason, why do they do what they do?”

“Jon does not benefit from those letters, neither do I. You would suspect me as you do, you would suspect all of us from the North. The letters put Jon’s life at risk, by trying to divide him from you. Or you from him, your grace, depending on the view. Because, if we look at this from this perspective, you listen to Jon, and you rely on his advice. You work with Jaime Lannister based on his advice, I could not name stronger proof than that, your grace. Jon by your side is a threat to someone, and they are writing these letters. I know not who, I would not accuse anyone without proof. I only came to tell you truly what I know.”

Daenerys looked on her hands in her lap lengthily, before her resolute gaze returned to Sansa’s.

“I appreciate you’ve come, your grace,” she said sternly, “However, you could’ve just accused my advisors from the outright and it would’ve meant the same.”

“I only told you what I know, your grace,” Sansa repeated.

“Yes,” Daenerys nodded, “And it must’ve been very hard for you to come all this way to say it. I thank you.”

“I came here because of Jon,” Sansa declared, silently wondering if the Queen was mocking her or appreciating her efforts. “He would never scheme like this, and the letters put him at risk. We cannot allow that.”

“We can see eye to eye at that, at the least,” Daenerys smiled in response. “I never believed that Jon would write those letters, your grace.”

Sansa allowed herself a slight sigh as she nodded in acknowledgement.

“I asked Ser Jorah to investigate,” Daenerys added then, “He will find the traitor and report to me, and he will go about it justly, objectively. Ser Jorah would never betray me, just as you would never betray Jon, your grace.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wider at hearing her reasoning. She stood, “I hope Ser Jorah finds the traitor soon, in this case,” she said, “I thank you for your time, your grace.”

She turned to leave, biting on her lip to mute her anger at the remark. ‘Just as you would never betray Jon’, what concern was that of Daenerys?

“Your grace,” she’s heard Daenerys calling out for her. Slowly she turned, hoping her face didn’t show her feelings.

“Jon has told me, you gave him your blessing,” Daenerys said.

“I’ve told him to do what he wants to do, for himself,” Sansa answered, “And if what he wants to do is staying with you, nobody should tell him otherwise, your grace. He is leading us and fighting for us, all of us, and that includes you and your armies here. He should be allowed for once in his life to consider himself, once this war is over. He deserves that much. Your grace,” Sansa nodded, before she turned and swiftly left the tent.


	60. The Gods Eye II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF VIOLENCE (aka Ramsay Bolton's deeds)

“How did it go?” Reed asked as soon as the flap at the entrance of Sansa’s tent moved, jumping from the chair he occupied while waiting.

Sansa merely walked in silently, following her nodding to the makeshift guards Reed insisted she’ll take with her, as they left her at the door.

She dumped herself into the chair Reed just abandoned.

“She knows, about my…” She sighed, “About what Jon means to me, she knows.”

She looked at Reed with a defeated look, “Why has he told her?”

“I doubt that he’s told her anything,” Reed protested, “You know Jon, he would not betray you like that. Besides, Daenerys is self-righteous but she’s no fool. Jon wears your ribbon still; I’ve seen it just today.”

Sansa nodded. “Did he tell you?”

“Told me what?”

“He…” She smiled at Reed, or more like, smirked, trying to pretend that this piece of information meant nothing to her, even trying to convince herself just as she did every time she’s thought of it. “He’s laid with her. On Dragonstone.”

Reed raised an eyebrow, and Sansa could immediately tell that he had no knowledge of it at all. No, Jon didn’t share it with anyone but her. Like he said, Sansa had to know. Which only confirmed what Reed said just now, something she knew – Jon would never tell on her to anyone, not even the woman who’s bed he shares.

“It’s true,” she explained, “Jon has told me. He told me that he snapped, he fought Euron Greyjoy and he ‘sliced him up like roast’, that’s what he said. He enjoyed it, truly enjoyed it, and he was so effective at it that Greyjoy fell on Blackfyre to die, given the chance. Then Jon went and laid with Daenerys.”

Reed seemed to be processing this new information, pondering on it. As she watched, Sansa suddenly felt a certain calm taking over her – something she only felt when Reed was around, and no one else. By the Gods, she chose well. She couldn’t imagine what kind of mess she would’ve become without Howland Reed.

Something wanted out. Something that only came to her when she laid alone in bed, when no one was around, something only Jon would’ve known, and yet still, this was something even Jon should’ve never known. Jon knew things, during countless long and dark sleepless nights in their shared tent, Sansa often felt a similar calmness of security and talked. Jon never asked, never mentioned it to her once daylight broke again, as if it was forgotten, never happened.

“I thought about it,” She whispered, “What would it have been like, was it me… I thought about it, I tried to imagine him…” Her voice trailed off for a moment and she swallowed, “All I could imagine was kneeling on the bed in Winterfell clutching to the bedsheets begging inside for it to end.”

She looked straight ahead, at something she couldn’t really see, her mind far away as she’s allowed the memory to return. Yet she knew that Reed’s eyes were on her.

“Perhaps it is for the better,” she whispered. “Kneeling on the bed is all I know, Howland, that pain is all I know. Every night he came, and he’s hurt me, did whatever he wanted, things that I didn’t even know men do… and then he locked me into the room all day until the sun went down and he came again… Every day. I tried to tell myself when I tried to imagine, like father said, someone strong and gentle, like Jon. But all I can imagine is kneeling on the bed. All I remember is my wrists tied to the bed posts and the way he was grinning, always grinning while he…”

She stopped. She didn’t need to share anymore. She was ashamed of it, so very ashamed of it, and even more ashamed now of the need she felt to let it out. A sudden thought came to mind, what will Reed think of her? This man who she trusted, she relied on, who cared for her… what will he think of her shame now that he knew, he really knew because she told him – what if he can’t forgive her for it? All those nights she now recalled when she silently endured, did as was told, and endured whatever was done to her, will Reed forgive her? Or will he turn away from her? Could anyone forgive it to her?

Jon forgave it. Jon never turned away; no. Jon used to hold her until she fell asleep.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, Reed’s hand and so she finally looked up. She didn’t expect to see what she saw.

The old man’s eyes were gleaming of tears. No, he wasn’t crying, but his cheeks betrayed a tumultuous set of emotions behind the loving gaze that met her own.

“Not all men are like that,” Howland Reed whispered, “In fact I am certain that your bastard husband was… singular, in that regard.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered, forcing on her face a slight smile. She felt guilty for causing this man to be in such pain as she saw on the kind wrinkled face, in those teary grey eyes.

“I am sorry I troubled you with my shame,” she uttered the words as she reached for Reed’s hand on her shoulder, taking it into her own. But Howland Reed swiftly crouched down in front of her, squeezing her hand in assurance.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, or ashamed of,” he said, “You cannot carry everything by yourself. You shouldn’t carry this any longer either, and if I can help you let it go, then tell me, tell me what you need to be able to let it go with the past. It’s the past, Sansa, he is dead, and he will never ever lay a finger on you again.”

Sansa smiled gently at the old man. So much wisdom, so much patience and understanding in one small bony little man, that it would be enough for half of the North, she thought.

“I know,” she whispered, “I know I have to let it go. That’s what Jon said, the only thing he used to say about it. I never told anyone else.”

“I think they all know,” she said, wondering why her own tears didn’t come, “I used to think that whenever someone looks at me, they think of that, how I… what happened in my room. I used to tell myself to be silent, else they hear. They will hear my shame, all the servants… So I used to be silent, as much as I could. Theon knew, of course… Theon was forced to watch. Theon saved me from him, Howland. Theon, and Brienne, they saved me. I was ready to die, and they saved me.”

“And what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” Reed said in response, “You know that. You know that now you can survive anything. If I may add, we all know you can survive anything. It’s a good thing to be a survivor, especially for a Queen.”

“Except dragonfire,” she gave Reed a wide smile, just to ease the heaviness that lingered in the tent, and Reed returned the gesture. “And, that. If I had to go through that again, just once… Jon told me, sleep with a dagger, under my pillow, with Longclaw, and I do. I always will, I suppose for I’ll cut down the next man who ever lays hand on me like that, or I cut my own throat, but I’ll never go through that again.”

“These are grim thoughts,” Reed sighed. “Keep the dagger if it makes you feel safe, but I would counsel you to not assume any man who comes near would be like that to you.”

“No, I have to learn to accept that they are not,” she said firmly. “And I don’t have much time. If I am right, soon enough there’ll be a need for me to allow someone near.”

“No one can force you,” Reed said, “I know the North will demand, once the war is over and we’ve all returned home and to rebuild. The Queen needs an heir that is true, but you take your time. Don’t just do what others tell you to do, do what is right for you. Chose the man that you want, after two that you didn’t that’s only fair that you’re allowed a choice.”

Sansa gave him a forgiving smile. Sometimes she wondered if Reed saw everything the way she did, and if she saw things the way she did because of her experience, living with Cersei, with Littlefinger. But it was plainly clear, Reed didn’t see what she saw. She thought that he did, she recalled telling him as much, but now she wasn’t so sure. In any case there was no point telling him. There was nothing to gain from troubling him with the fact that he served a young and comely unwed Queen, a high prize for any man, second sons and third brothers of Lords and Ladies powerful enough to have a say in the makings of this world, anyone who dreamed of being King – she was their chance, she knew it. There won’t be much time, if she was right, there’ll be no time at all.

*****

“My Queen.”

Daenerys turned from the small chest she was digging into. She smiled at the sight of Grey Worm, nodding at her, “You sent for me.”

She tossed the scarf back into the chest. This war was growing more unbearable by the day. She couldn’t find clean clothing for herself, digging in the chest for a while now, while her mind kept returning to the question whether Sansa Stark had similar problems. Now that she could not just make new garments for herself whenever she wished. As if she, Daenerys Targaryen should concern herself of what Sansa Stark wore. She couldn’t even figure what she should be wearing. Soon there’ll be a battle, she intended to make use of the time and wash for who knows what will happen, and when she’ll next have the chance after. But her chest contained only muddy worn linens. She wondered if she should’ve learned how to wash them a long time ago. But she was a Targaryen.

“How are your preparations going?” She asked, fully turning toward the commander of her Unsullied forces.

“They are almost complete,” Grey Worm rested in his posture as he began, “We prepared the same way as before, dug two trenches, lined them with the remaining pitch, and we are digging pikes. We have some of the dragonglass nailheads, we make use of those as well, for the pikes. Jon Snow said we must cover the trenches this time, so we are building planks, we will cover them with mud and some vegetation.”

“His name is Targaryen,” Dany smiled, “He’s not a Snow, never been.”

Grey Worm merely nodded.

“I mean to ask you something,” she said then, “Tell me, have you encountered the Stark sisters at all lately?”

Grey worm seemed confused by the question, his expression slowly turning to a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.

“I am not asking what you were doing,” Dany said, “I am told you can vouch for their whereabouts at a certain time.”

“By the river,” Grey Worm said lowly, “They were with the big woman knight, by the river. They were washing clothing, and they went behind those weeping trees in the water. I’ve not seen them then, but they then came out of the water the same way and they dressed. That is all I’ve seen.”

“When was this?”

“After the meeting,” Grey Worm’s expression began to turn to that of suspicion. “Have they done you harm?”

“They could do me no harm, Grey Worm,” Dany smiled, “And it seems that they’ve done actually nothing. Have you seen ravens flying out lately? Messengers.”

“None, my queen,” he responded, too quickly for Dany not to notice. Their eyes met. There was more, she could see.

“Men say there was a raven,” Grey Worm explained, “I saw no raven, I was by the river. But men say there was one shot down by Lions after the meeting. Jon Snow told them to… Targaryen. Forgive me.”

Dany nodded. So, it was true. Jon had caught a raven. Jon had a new scroll. And it was not Sansa Stark who sent it, neither was it her sister, nor Brienne of Tarth. That left… Dany sighed.

“This is all,” she declared, “Go and finish your preparations. When you see Jon, tell him I wish to speak with him, and it is urgent. Now, return to your position.”

Grey Worm nodded and turned, swiftly, like the soldier taking an order, before she added, “And be safe. I have need of you after this battle, so do not risk your life if you can avoid it. Be safe, Grey Worm.”

*****

Jon walked the camp, or more like, stumbled around following Peat, taking each step exactly as the boy did. It reminded him of how little he knew. He learned this in the marshes, there were things he knew nothing about, things that even boys like Peat were masters of – how not to sink into the mud was one of those things. One would think it was nothing, insignificance, until one had to rely on the skill to stay alive, and then one felt truly useless being unable to take a step on their own. It must’ve been a grounding feeling to any man, and it grounded Jon.

Once they cleared the mud, he nodded for Peat in thanks before they parted. No words. In fact, no one spoke. No fires were lit.

Those were his orders. Tonight, soldiers will hold on to each other in the cold winds of winter, for Jon will not allow a single pyre, not even the smallest one, anywhere. Not in what was the northern camp, now east of the road, and south from the planks that served as bridge to the island – long wooden planks laid across the tiny boats that men certainly used for crossing in other, more peaceful times. The bridges were whence he came from just now, he meant to study them, to learn to find them. Peat will remain here and wait for whomever from the living will have to cross.

The boy volunteered. Poor lad still carried the shame of being the only survivor of Greywater Watch, not that it was shameful in the eyes of anyone else – no, he was hailed as the crannogman who saved the Queen, Jon knew. But the boy felt differently about it. He volunteered to the most dangerous of missions – to cross to the island in the midst of battle, knowing well that the Night King himself should be there. Jon wanted to refuse, but he couldn’t. He understood the boy. He often felt the same urge, when all your friends are gone, those who you lived with and fought with side by side and you’re alone in the world, facing your foe – Jon felt the same. Sam was gone. Edd was dead. And Pip, and Gren, and every brother, including Bran and Rickon and Robb, they were dead. Jon was still here, breathing. He was to face his foe.

He walked the camp, past beyond the bundles, soldiers under blankets, tightly curled up next to each other. They must be cursing him, he thought. He didn’t allow tents to be raised, anything that could prevent movement was forbidden now.

He had good reason to be cautious, though they couldn’t have known. Tormund’s return from the scouting mission revealed that Jon wasn’t near as successful as he hoped to be when it came to keeping distance from the dead – they weren’t even a day behind. They were marching slowly, steadily. Tormund expected them to arrive before daybreak.

Apart from Jon, only Griff, Edric, Ser Jorah and Jaime Lannister knew. The commanders – his captains, they would be called. They had to know, they needed an explanation for the unusually harsh set of commands for tonight, and frankly, they needed to be prepared. And now, there wasn’t a single tent or fire, a single word louder than a whisper, that could give away that there was an army of seventy thousand in position.

Soon the Unsullied will light their campfires, if they haven’t done so yet, for the sun was truly down now, stars were the only light on the sky, accompanied by the new moon they provided very little visibility. Jon was glad for the new moon, it helped him now to hide his forces. They were the bait, they had to be seen, felt by the dead, if there was such a thing for them as feeling the warmth of a body fuelled by the flowing of blood, pumped by a living heart, of men surrounding camp fires to keep warm in the cold winds of winter.

He still wondered where it will go wrong. He wasn’t overly happy about fighting in the dark despite the perfect cover it provided, much needed camouflage for tens of thousands of men, elephants and direwolves. Still, Jon knew that this battle would’ve been a much cleaner win was it fought in daylight.

He cleared what he perceived to be the camp, whispering again and again, “It's a new moon tonight.” The pass phrase. Not because any enemy would try to talk anyone into allowing them near the camp, on the opposite. The enemy would not be whispering anything. That’s why anyone on the move had to constantly chant something, else they’d be cut down quite quickly by sentinels, guards and scouts who were placed as frequent as Jon could allow himself without preventing the resting of men.

He walked straight ahead in the dark, hoping he was not losing his way around. Looking up to the sky, he quickly took note of the constellations – he was walking South. Where he intended to be. He kept pacing, chanting the password at every ten step or so, watching where he stepped, in his mind calling for his companion. It’s been a while since they spent time together. Jon intended to remedy that, as their ambiguous conversation began in his mind.

The dragon was calm and knowing. Of course, he knew, he sensed Jon’s anxieties and fears, his preparedness. Soon.

Or sooner.

He’s heard the scream and turned, but in the dark, he couldn’t figure where it came from. In the distance behind him he saw fires – hoping those were the Unsullied. Judging by their position, they must’ve been. There seemed to be no movement in the dark, so he draw Blackfyre. His heart began to pump in his throat, as his mind cleared, adrenaline rushing all over his body. All his weariness was gone in an instant.

Nothing moved, no further sound came. But Jon knew. He knew as he exhaled, watching as his breath left him and dissipated in front of his face.

They are here.

 

But where? He looked around once more. He was standing on a field, in the distance he could make out his destination, he could see the shape of a dragon spreading wings. Somewhat to the right, he saw then movement. The other dragon awoke.

He turned, his eyes scanning in the darkness, to no avail. He ran.

Rhaegal knew, he awaited him with open wings, but not yet to take to the skies. No, Jon would not risk it. He dumped himself by the side of the dragon, sword still in his hand. His eyes rolled.

 

Thirst, not for water, but for blood. Restless urge as he ran, panting heavily, the wolf’s paws silently hitting the ground at each step, almost as if he was flying, but no, he was no dragon this time. He was a direwolf.

He ran, and some ran with him, he could feel them and sense them behind him, as he ran past the camp of unsullied, keeping distance. The field to the north of them was clear, and he turned, north, and north some more until he halted. They were NOT here.

He felt his heart rush, his mind fill with panic as he turned to the right and ran. Ran up on the hill and down again until he could see he’s neared countless little lumps on the ground. He knew not all of them were sleeping. No, they were hiding, their sentinels watching around intently. He stopped. He didn’t mean to startle them.

He ran south, circling them around. Elephants shuffled, silently as if they knew that he came as a friend, not as an enemy. They were neatly lined up, more and more lumps of bodies rolled into blankets around them, ready to jump and fight, even if they were resting now. This was good, this was what Jon wanted.

He reached full circle around them, almost. He could see the wolf’s breath around him, as if he was cutting through ice in the air as he ran. They are here, but where?

He stopped once more, turning to the west. He could hear no sound. There was no movement, the treeline in the distance hid from him anything between his pack and the woods. They could be there, he knew. And if they were, he was doomed.

He ran north. Horses awaited calmly mixed with more lumps on the ground. It began to amaze him – seventy thousand, more or less, following his orders to a tee, regardless of whom they served, regardless of kings and queens, alliances and origins, all doing exactly as he wanted them to. This was power, he told himself. This was more powerful than anything else, chairs made of swords, ice spiders or dragonfire – this was the single most powerful thing a man could have. Other men behind him, as one, following his every command.

He ran into the camp, looking for a sign. It didn’t take long to find it, even though he didn’t know what it was. He stopped in front of the man on the ground and leaned close.

One lick on the forehead of Jorah Mormont. He tastes salty, of sweat. He moved; his eyes bewildered. Tail wagging, faint howl, before the nose of a direwolf nudged him. One more lick on his face, wake up. They are here. Mormont exhaled. Startled. Jumped. Nodded, raising those around him.

 

Turn around, ran again. The camp began to rise, men were already mounting, their rising was so fast that he could see clearly his success before he cleared. They didn’t follow him, but he didn’t want them to. He circled around, and back, straight to where Jorah Mormont was, now mounted on his horse, sword in his hand. He turned toward the south. They are there, he knew it. They out-tricked him. He knew it.

Time to wake the Golden Company, but how? It was one thing to wake Jorah Mormont, the man who rode into battle at his command so many times, the man who saw Ghost before. Who’s heard enough and seen enough to know, if Ghost was waking him, it was no trick of his mind. It was what Jon wanted.

He howled. Howled again. Hundreds of wolves picked up the notion, howling in unison, all across the camp. His pack stood by his side as one, howling toward the stars, and he could hear them all now, to the north and the south, and the east, they were all signalling.

He turned back once more, looking straight into Jorah Mormont’s eyes.

“Go now,” Mormont whispered, “They are in front of us. I hear you.”

 

He nodded and ran, hoping he’ll make it across. He didn’t want to get caught between the living and the dead, but he had to be certain.

He watched as to his right, elephants were moving about, men were mounting them. Suddenly he turned, as if he turned away from his breath whitening the air in front of him, and ran straight into the camp, hoping they won’t turn on him in their surprise.

Surprised they were. They jumped, some fell on the ground losing balance, some gasped. But none made a sound louder than that. No, they obeyed orders.

He was frantically looking for Jon Connington. Griff would be towards the back of the camp, he knew, expecting their enemy to the west. But the enemy was to the east!

It took a while to find him, and the man turned and stepped back a few steps as dozens of wolves stopped as one in front of him.

He wanted to yell. But only a whining sound came, as one paw began padding the ground. He took a step closer, repeated it, repeatedly turning toward the east. Please.

Griff watched. The captains surrounding him watched.

“It’s as if it wants to say something,” one whispered, “The big white one. Gods, those red eyes…”

Griff’s eyes narrowed as he crouched down, his eyes meeting those red eyes.

“Jon,” he murmured.

A lick on the face, yes, it is me. You should’ve washed off all this dirt on your cheek, I’ve done it for you now.

Faint smile on Griff’s astonished face. “There can be only one reason why you are here,” he whispered. “They outsmarted you, didn’t they?”

He watched the man swallow hard. “Are you alive or are you trapped in that direwolf, Jon?”

He wanted to laugh, truly, what kind of question was that? He howled instead, turning his body toward the east, and all the direwolves followed his example. He looked back at Griff as he kept padding the ground with his paw, eager and restless for him to understand.

“They are there,” Griff asked hesitantly, “Is that what you’re telling me?”

Jon couldn’t have felt happier. He jumped toward the man, licking the rest of the dirt off his face with tail wagging as if it was merely play time. No, it wasn’t, he swiftly stopped just as Connington fell back onto the ground. Yet the man jumped in an instant.

“The dead are to the east of us,” he whispered, yet it was as firm as an order shouted across a battlefield, “Get into line, get ready. Not a sound.”

The captains scattered; the job was done. Griff turned back toward him, but he had no time for pleasantries.

 

He cleared the camp as swiftly as he could, with men moving about, too often in his way, startling and falling back at his sight. He’s done what he could.

Then he heard it. Another scream, the kind of scream that left a man’s throat at the moment of death, when a man realises that this is the last moment. It came from the south, and Jon ran, once more in panic. Surely, they could not be coming from the south?!

The dragons were there, Rhaegal, his greatest weapon and if he admitted to himself, closest companion in this war. And Daenerys. And Sansa, Arya and Howland Reed, with little more than a garrison to protect them. He ran, feeling the tiredness in his legs.

The shape of men neared, shapes of dragons in the distance, spreading wings.

A fight? A man moved, and Jon already understood. Short figure, long coat – Daenerys. Behind him in the distance, a dragon struggling, with orders to stay on the ground, to stay silent, and yet the urge to take flight and breathe fire at the danger that surrounded his mother. Men in front of her, and men attacking, long capes and long swords clashing in the dark.

It was quick. As he ran close, he watched the two men protecting her fall, one of her attackers moving in to claim the prize. He jumped, straight for the throat.

The taste of blood was refreshing, and there was no sound. He was too swift for that. He tore at the throat, before he looked up, straight into her dreadful eyes. Wolves surrounded her now, and finally, he could satisfy his thirst for blood. Just a little more, he thought, as he leaned back down to tear the flesh, and swallow.

He looked at the man. Black cape, black attire. As if he was a sworn brother of the watch, yet he was clean shaven, hair neatly cut. Jon couldn’t make anything of it, there was nothing he could see that could’ve identified the man.

He returned to Daenerys, slowly walking to her side. He could sense her fear, silently noting to himself that he never knew she could feel such fear. Yet calm came upon her, as he walked past, looking back at her he could see resolution in her eyes. He walked, and she followed, and the wolves moved as one in the circle around them. She received new guard.

 

There’s no time. Someone came for Daenerys, someone still breathing. Someone came for a Queen. Someone will come for the other. He began to quicken his pace, leading her away from the scene, closer and closer to safety – the safety of a dragon.

Drogon was ready, waiting, and he ran now, albeit much slower, allowing her to keep up, looking back again to make sure that she did. He reached the dragon in no time still, and yet time that felt like hours from the perspective of knowing, he should be somewhere else.

 

He watched her climb atop as he heard it.

Three blasts. The unsullied horn sounded. He wanted to laugh. So much for battle plans.

He ran one last time, back to where his journey began, nearing the dragon curled up, running around it. He stopped to take sight of his own body slouching against the side of the dragon, head high with white eyes wide toward the sky.

Here I leave you. You’ve done well. No go and protect them.

_(to be continued...)_


	61. The Gods Eye III.

 

As soon as he opened his eyes, he turned, holding on to scales, for he surely would’ve lost balance moving so swiftly after such a long time outside his body, but he had to climb up. He had to know.

The dead were east of all the forces, he knew it and yet, the unsullied horn sounded the signal of dead approaching, again, to remind him, they were in the circle.

They must’ve divided their forces.

He settled atop Rhaegal, closing his eyes for a moment. Calm down, focus.

And so it begins, he thought, and the dragon moved, kicking the ground as it took to the sky, and looking to his right he could see the other one followed.

 

He flew straight North, low enough to see. They were indeed in the circle, rushing, almost at the first trench in front of the unsullied. His hand grabbed the horn.

Not yet.

Men. Only the skeletal corpses of men. These were the bait, he realised immediately, this was not the main army. These were the remnants, skeletons, barely moving.

He felt fury rising inside. He should’ve prepared for this. He knew that using the same trick carried a risk, and yet, he solely relied on the darkness. He lost his advantage.

He blew his horn, three long blasts. There was nothing to it, it wasn’t because the unsullied would not hold this line without the thousands of riders who now came forth almost as soon as the dead hit the first trench. No, it was to signal to them all – the battle has begun.

 

As Rhaegal turned, he could see the trench lighting up with fire, burning skeletons with what little flesh remained on them. He could see Jaime Lannister atop his horse, he could see the wonder in his eyes. Jaime understood it, too.

Rhaegal dove in, straight for Jaime Lannister, flying past above him and turning toward the east. Jon wondered at his own resourcefulness to communicate, whether it worked as well as with a direwolf, but as he returned above Ser Jaime, Rhaegal shrieked, and Jaime Lannister draw sword. He was turning east. It worked.

Jon flew ahead, still hearing the orders being shouted amidst battle. To the north, Drogon flew beside him. Daenerys flew north, Jon knew, while he lingered here, she went to see. She must’ve known, and if not, she must’ve perceived through Drogon, Rhaegal, what Jon knew.

A funny thought came to mind. One day he wants to be an old man, sitting in an old library with an old Samwell Tarly, dictating how this felt, how such a connection could work, to preserve it in a book like no other. He even wondered what he would call it, before he reminded himself to focus, as he flew past the Golden Company. Looking down, he noted gladly that they were ready. Their rear faced the unsullied still, no doubt awaiting what came of the battle there, yet the bulk of the army was facing east. He could make out Jon Connington at the head of the army, and his heart clenched.

It twisted, for he looked ahead. He could see now, in the sky, the dark clouds masking the stars – birds. He didn’t hesitate, there was no point in waiting.

As he flew, Rhaegal breathed fire ahead, toward the clouds. Drogon did the same, lighting the sky.

His heart filled with dread.

This was no twenty thousand.

 

Bears, shadowcats rushing forth, and men, thousands upon thousands of men, fresh corpses… Where? Where did he raise an army like this?!

Rhaegal circled around to the south, Drogon to the North, while Jon studied the army. Men young and old, women and children. Blue capes, more and more blue capes.

Gods be good – the dead emptied the Vale!

He silently cursed himself for the lack of scouting while they retreated south. He assumed they were being followed. He assumed they were still the target, forgetting the grave lesson he should’ve learned at White Harbor. Somewhere between their abandoning of the marshes and reaching the Gods Eye, the dead turned east, climbed the passages between the Mountains of the Moon straight to the Bloody gate. No, they didn’t climb it, Jon knew.

He had to chuckle at the thought, for he knew for certain how they did it. It wasn’t even all of them, only a few, like the few that entered the Neck to the West of the Kingsroad, in order to find someone living, find Greywater Watch. That was their trick.

No doubt they left corpses everywhere, and waited; and no doubt they didn’t have to wait long at all, and the same happened, again and again, until all those barricaded away in the mountains and the Eyrie were turned, orderly marching down the pass to join them against the living.

He kept studying them, men and women in fancy clothing, men and women in ragged furs and leathers. It didn’t matter who you were when death came, were you a lord, or were you a nobody in one of them mountain clans. It didn’t matter if you were sworn enemies, for you march together now. It didn’t matter who you were anymore.

 

He felt fury rising inside him as he noticed them. The white walkers sat still on their ice spiders in the back. In the air, far in the distance he saw Drogon. Attack.

Rhaegal dove in breathing fire at ice spiders and anything around them, and Jon saw Drogon nearing, doing the same as he reached for his horn. No, not yet.

He had a plan. It was still the right plan.

 

Now all the living knew where the enemy was, the fire that the dragons lit in the sky must’ve given it away. Good. He meant to make use of this. He can move his forces, he can do what the Night King did, if he was fast enough…

 

He reached the end of the army to the north and flew ahead, until he caught side of the Dothraki to his left. Circling back, he landed right in front of Jorah Mormont.

“You’ve seen them?” He cried out, and Mormont nodded.

“Circle around, get them in the rear, now!” He could see the grin forming on Ser Jorah’s face, but Rhaegal was already taking flight, east, as he watched the Dothraki move as one below. They turned east.

Turning south he flew straight for Jaime Lannister’s forces. They were lined up by now, along with the unsullied, across the field – Jaime Lannister was a commander, born and bred, Jon thought, for he couldn’t have done a better job adjusting to the developments. The Unsullied formed a line with the riders behind them, just as they intended to receive the dead in the clearing. Once more, Rhaegal landed, behind the lines, right behind where Jaime Lannister sat on his horse.

“Ser Jaime!”

The men moved, shuffled, and Ser Jaime rode forth as much as his horse was willing to near the dragon.

“New orders,” Jon rushed, just as screams filled the air – the dead hit the first line of the Golden Company.

“Take your men and cover the southern flank, don’t let them get any further south, close them in!”

Ser Jaime nodded, albeit the sounds of fight grew louder and louder. It grew more and more frightening; Jon was restless to take to the air once more. As he looked up, he saw Drogon diving in on the south, breathing fire in a long line across the battlefield ahead.

It had the effect it always did. Men cheered. The dragons were their greatest weapon, not just because of their enormous size, their impenetrable scales and their fire breathing. No, they were their greatest weapon because of the hope they carried, Jon thought as he watched Daenerys atop Drogon, as the dragon turned to repeat the same attack in the opposite direction.

“Find Grey Worm!” Jon shouted, “The Unsullied must keep retreating, you hear me?! Draw them into the clearing, draw them toward the island and lock them in!”

Once more Ser Jaime nodded, and turned away from him, shouting orders. Rhaegal took to the skies.

 

This wasn’t like any other battle; Jon knew as soon as he saw.

He used to wait, Jon thought, he used to wait until the battle was over, then raise his fucking dead arms and raise the fallen. Not this time, he had to conclude, as he watched a dead elephant slowly rising, eyes shining an icy blue. No, this time he had no time to wait. He knew, Jon knew that the Night King knew he was outnumbered. There was no advantage left that Jon could rely on – the longer the battle, the more even the odds, before they’ll turn from bad to worse.

 

They had to be quicker in burning the army of the dead than the Night King was in recruiting their fallen. Dany already begun, and Jon followed her example, burning long lines into the army below, as close to the Golden Company as he dared. He didn’t want to burn his own, but he wanted to reduce the numbers that reached them.

As he flew past Griff, who sat atop a horse, eyes firmly fixed on the field ahead, he shouted, “Get your fucking elephants back in the rear!”

They could’ve been good perhaps, in some other time, on a different battlefield, but considering the dead attacked the rear of the Golden Company, poor animals found themselves at the front, not the rear where they were supposed to be. So now they became targets, and they began to fall, another one slowly rising in the distance. Drogon breathed fire on it, being near, before it came to full force. Griff blew his horn, long-short-long-short set of blasts. The elephants turned around. Men began to give way to the retreating elephants, then close ranks behind them as they retreated.

 

Rhaegal took to higher in the sky. Jon learned of a new advantage of being atop a dragon, one that he never really utilised before in battle. As he circled around above the battlefield, he had a view that any commander would beg to have – he could see it all, dragonfires burning dead men and beasts lit up the field. He could see the Dothraki reaching position, he could see Jaime Lannister doing the same to the south. He saw the Unsullied moving back as the elephants reached them. And the dead, they pushed ahead, decimating the Golden Company. He dove in once more.

 

Straight for Jon Connington, once more. The man was retreating slowly, as his lines were pushed toward the west, his face grim. He was watching his company’s annihilation, if something didn’t change swiftly.

“Retreat, north and south!” Jon shouted to him, and Griff looked up, his eyebrows drawn together. Retreat wasn’t something the Golden Company was eager to do.

“Give them way, you fool!” Jon shouted, watching as Griff’s face turned to one that of sudden realisation, an eureka moment dawned on the commander. They were in the way.

He blew his horn, And Jon laughed aloud hearing the sound of four short blasts. Two short blasts followed them, one long, two shorts again, some kind of signal combination, before the four short blasts sounded once more.

The Golden Company parted right where Griff sat on his horse, and the man turned and rode away to the south, out of the way.

As Rhaegal circled back in the sky, he could see what made the Golden Company. They were in the midst of battle, squeezed into their own allied line, and yet, they executed order with precision that Jon never saw before. Their eastern sides fought during the retreat, but they were indeed giving way, rapidly, opening a gap toward the unsullied that grew wider by the minute.

The elephants were running as much as elephants could, to the North and the South, and out of the way. They were of no use at this stage of the battle, something which surely warmed the heart of those who manned them.

In the distance, at the end of the widening gap, stood lines of Unsullied at the ready, and above them a sight that draw chill in Jon’s heart. The black Dragon, shrieking, its wings flapping holding it straight in the sky right above Grey Worm’s forces, forming a defensive line of its own.

 

The dead were good at following the thought process of the one who lead them, but when in battle, Jon knew that could only go so far. Attack to them means push ahead no matter what, until a halting command comes, and they stop in motion, waiting for the next command. Thus they kept pushing ahead, and into the gap, right for the unsullied. Jon watched as Drogon opened its jaw, as the fireball formed in his throat before he unleashed it on the dead.

It was time. He blew his horn, two long blasts, before he turned toward the south.

In the distance North, he could see the movement he expected, and below him, taking Rhaegal’s lead, he could see it was mirrored. Gods, it was working. It was working!

 

He rose high and turned to watch as the Dothraki and Ser Jaime’s forces closed the circle around the dead. The ice spiders, those that remained have turned around, so he dove in to burn them while they were still in safe distance. He circled and circled, breathing fire, amusing himself with the sight for it was something he knew he’ll always remember: Northmen, Lannisters, Knights of the Vale, mixed with Dothraki; but all of them side by side regardless of who it was by their side, formed a tight line ahead, slowly moving forth. Arakhs and swords in the air, they did what Jon expected them to do – pushed the dead into the clearing where they were originally meant to be.

 

He rose high, once more, to see clearer. He didn’t particularly like what he saw. On the edges of the dead, the movement was clearly indicating their fallen rising, turning against their own men. Where is he? Jon has not seen him, where was the Night King?

He must be here, Jon tried to convince himself, he must be here to raise them so quickly, he must be nearby. Oh, he was smart. He knew Jon wanted to fight him; he knew this place. He didn’t reveal himself; he didn’t risk himself. He used his army to halt Jon’s attempts, and refused to face him just as Bran predicted a very long time ago.

 

In the distance, the Unsullied were retreating. The circle began to form. Jon blew his horn, one long blast. Get ready, Edric.

Then there was nothing else left to do but doing what he craved to be doing all this time, what he’s spent these past days imagining whenever he had time to think about the outcome. This was what he prepared for, what he longed for, perhaps ever since the first walker rose in Lord Commander Mormont’s solar to face him. Annihilation.

Rhaegal circled in the North, Jon watching Drogon to move in mirroring his movements in the south. They were ready. The two dragons began breathing fire in union. Long lines of fires as they flew in circles, burning whatever rotting creature was in their way.

 

As they circled, Jon watched his own forces. They were fighting, for sure, but then more and more of them had chance to still themselves, and they watched. Men stood; their faces taken over by awe. They must’ve thought what Jon thought – they were watching victory. They surely must’ve thought that, because more and more of them began to cheer in the lines behind those who were still being occupied at the front. They cheered, their swords and lances and arakhs in the air.

Jon wanted to cheer with them, but he didn’t feel that it was right, something nagged at him. His own task neared, he knew, and he still hasn’t caught sight of the Night King, not even once. He was here, that much Jon was certain of, but he couldn’t tell where. The dead stopped rumbling in the trap, which dragged him back to the task ahead.

 

One by one, the white walkers stepped forth, forming a line in front of the Unsullied. There was only eight of them, Jon could see how they stopped at equal distance from each other, staring at Grey Worm’s forces. That was where the circle of the living was thinnest, and not without reason.

The unsullied began to beat the ground, more and more picking up their form of battle cry. They knew what Jon just realised; they knew what was coming.

 

This wasn’t White Harbor, where the walkers would merely walk away to join their other army – there was no other army. Even if they tried to abandon their trapped footsoldiers, they were surrounded. There was really no way out, not without a fight.

No, they would have to fight, and now, the pieces of Jon’s plan were finally beginning to fall into place. The Unsullied battle cry wasn’t part of his plan per se, but as he saw it, it only draw attention to their line even more, almost teasing the dead into an attack.

Go for it, Jon silently urged them on. Come on you fuckers, go for it…

 

In union the walkers reached out their right arms with sword in hand, and shrieked. The living fell silent in an instant – their shrieks were causing the chill to run down Jon’s spine even, and he was in the air. The dragons stopped, as Dany also began to watch it. At the ready, Jon knew.

He glanced back, looking around once more at the sight of men of all kinds and backgrounds, holding the rear, holding the sides of the circle. Then it began, the final push of the dead to break free from the trap that already severely decimated their strength. As one, they rushed forth toward the unsullied.

 

And as one, the unsullied turned and ran. Jon blew his horn, one long blast. You better be ready, Edric.

As the army of the dead rushed past below them, Jon and Dany in union moved, the dragons breathing fire at the rear of the army, urging them forward.

Jon glanced back behind him – yes, the riders began to disperse, taking to the next task.

 

He laughed aloud. Jaime Lannister must be very pleased now… the way a scissor would close around whatever it was cutting, the two sides began to push forth, the riders riding around in the back to strengthen the two sides. At the front, the Unsullied ran, before they stopped, took up formation once more. Jon and Dany flew ahead, burning the wights right in front of the unsullied line in a circle, Jon watching as the two sides of the living forces once more united at the back. He knew it was almost time for him to leave, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to see the end.

 

The unsullied turned and run some more, before the whole action was repeated. Jon wondered how many were below them, maybe five thousand? Six?

Against what? Sixty thousand?

The battle has been won. Jon knew.

 

He nodded toward Daenerys, and left the circle. From now, it was her task alone to keep burning them, but before Jon would land, he had one more task to complete.

 

He circled around, and with good reason. Their fallen were already moving, at least those that weren’t cut down using dragonglass or Valyrian steel, he told himself. Rhaegal began to burn them on the eastern side of the battlefield, now abandoned.

As he worked on this last grim task he had, he smiled at the rising cheer from the west. The men grew more and more confident.

A horn sounded, an Unsullied horn. One long blast. It was the sign for Edric, Jon knew that Edric’s forces began the final stage of this battle. It was also sign for him to get into position. He looked around – there were dead left behind, dead rising. It didn’t matter much, he told himself – the men can easily turn and finish them off, and Dany will soon be here… True enough, Dany was already circling back, to switch places with Jon. It all worked like clockwork.

 

Jon wasn’t to return to burning dead in the circle though. He merely flew past, turning above the Gods Eye. He was waiting.

Where are you?

Come on you frozen glass-hearted fucker. Where are you?

 

How many could there be? Two thousand? Perhaps tree? No, not even three thousand. Come on and face me.

 

Jon watched as the living cut down the dead, dragonglass shining in their hands in the starlight, thousands upon thousands of the living standing by and watching, at the ready. This was the point where he had no more use of his sixty thousand. No, the few who ended this battle were enough. They were cutting them down on their northern and southern side. There was nowhere else to go but into the lake, as the living at the back kept pushing them forward. Rhaegal shrieked triumphantly, and the forces of the living cheered aloud in response.

We are writing history, Jon told himself as he watched. We are putting an end to a threat thousands of years old, almost forgotten. We are starting a new age, right here and now…

 

The thought came so sudden. You, Jon Snow, Aegon Targaryen, or Jon Targaryen. You are not a mistake, neither are you a mere accident. You are not something that merely appeared, another soul embodied by the Gods to come to this world, stumble through life through all its struggles and hardships.

There is a reason why you are a wolf, and the same reason why you are a dragon. The son of Ice and Fire. This was your time to arrive, your father was to sire you and your mother was to bear you, exactly when they did. So many people tried to change your fate, and even more of them tried to prevent any fate for you. But here you are, because this is your fate.

This is who you are, Jon Targaryen. The Bastard of Winterfell, the Lord Commander. You are the White Wolf, the King in the North. You are the Prince that was Promised, the Son of Ice and Fire. The sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men. You are Lightbringer.

This is your destiny, all your pains and tears and every drop of blood you bled have led you here. You are the HEIR, not of Iron Thrones and Kingdoms. You’re the heir of Legacy, of the Truth. Something that was long forgotten, yet it returned and now you must claim your inheritance. Now is the time for you to fulfil your destiny.

 

Jon raised his head high, as the realisation dawned on him, as the wolves began to howl below, and thousands upon thousands of men shouted his name, Jon Targaryen. He glanced below, at the clearing on the island, a small patch of land surrounded by weirwoods. It dawned on him, perhaps even the gods were all watching, all of them gods and deities were all fixing their gaze on this small patch of land.

A white walker stepped forth at the riverbank, then another, and soon all eight of them were standing there. Waiting. Jon was waiting too, his mind filled with confidence, his heart with resolution.

Then he stepped forth. Of course Jon never caught sight of him before, none of them did. It was so obvious – the Night King wore a blue hooded cape. Jon had to chuckle at the idiocy of it.

You are a coward after all.

Slowly, Rhaegal lowered toward the small patch of land, and Jon walked off his wing. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he draw Blackfyre. The cheering ceased so suddenly, he began to wonder what happened, but as Rhaegal took to the sky, the Night King crouched down, his fingers merely touching the river.

The roaring sound almost deafened Jon, he unwillingly took a few steps backward.

 

No, his foe hasn’t given in to him yet, he realised, as the walkers shrieked, the roaring loudened and the water in the lake froze. Oh well, it wasn’t like Jon provided a bridge to cross, he reminded himself. Yet it was the walkers who crossed. Seven, to be exact, because Jon saw in the corner of his eye, Edric threw his dragonglass dagger at the nearest one. Thank you.

 

He was to fight his way through all of them? He never really considered what will happen to the walkers. There was commotion as they slowly walked across the lake, but no living dared to step on the ice. Jon could no longer see Edric.

They reached the land, and Jon draw his dragonglass dagger as if it provided any extra assistance – he was but one man, against eight, each of them stronger than he could ever be. His resolution didn’t waver, however, and he was glad for it. He cannot cower now, with his men watching.

The Night King raised his hand and clenched his fists. It seemed that the ice exploded from below on the lake, shattering to countless pieces. No, there’ll be no following him, not this way. Jon had to chuckle. He didn’t want to lose this battle in a single combat at its very end.

Yet he was resolute. It was now or never, and he will fight to his last breath. And should he die here, He sure will take this ancient frozen bastard with him to the depths of the seventh of hells.

 

Suddenly a whistle sounded, and Edric Snow rushed forth, right to the clearing between him and the wights. Edric you idiot, Jon thought at the sight of the grinning commander. But he wasn’t alone, no. The boy, Peat was with him, and Jon felt his anger rising at the sight of the boy. Jon Connington was here, and Grey Worm with a dozen unsullied, along with Ser Jorah Mormont and a couple of the Dothraki, four to be exact.

They disobeyed his command, and crossed using the planks laid for the sole reason of crossing in the case of his death, to finish these creatures if he couldn’t. It seems that they couldn’t wait it out. No, they didn’t want to wait it out, Jon reminded himself. Remember, when sixty thousand followed your order to a tee, what you see is the very same thing – they will not abandon their commander.

“Peat!” Jon called out, and the boy turned, dread in his eyes, “Get fucking lost, right now!”

The boy nodded, no doubt giving in more to his anger than his order, and ran away. Sixteen men lined up in front of Jon, seven white walkers nearing them. The odds were now as even as they could ever be. Then a walker attacked, and the fight began.

 

The Night King watched, just as Jon did. These creatures, they are strong. They could pick up a man by his throat and toss him into his death meters away. One did just that with a Dothraki.

They weren’t as good with the sword however, as they were with lance, Jon figured. Yes, lance was their chosen weapon, and the Unsullied fought them bravely, holding them off, allowing the rest to sneak in. Yet it was dangerous to sneak close for a hit, as the example of the Dothraki showed. Dothraki seemed completely at loss with the short arakhs they used. This was a lesson in warfare.

Jon stumbled backwards, out of the way of an unsullied soldier, defending a hit for the man’s heart while he reached down to help him up. As he turned, he found himself at the edge of the woodland, pushed back. They were all being pushed back, and out of sight. Soon the lances will be powerless among the trees.

That was when it hit him.

 

The blow was strong, he lost balance, and as he fell, he rolled away a few meters. He tried to land on his feet, crouched down with sword held to his back, ready to attack, but he couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t find where it came from. He felt the warmth of blood flowing on his face – he’s been hit.

“Edric!” He yelled out. He heard the fight, and stood to move toward the sound, “Edric, Griff!”

“Fucking Griff is not here, boy,” he heard behind him. He tried to breath, to focus, as if the earth turned with him as he tried to turn toward where the voice came.

“Edric!” He shouted again.

“Jon!” he heard Edric’s voice. He looked, he could see two unsullied in the woods, fighting. One of them glanced his way, and began to run toward him, allowing the walker to simply cut down the other.

An arrow flew past, straight for the running man’s heart. Jon’s mind struggled to register it, watching the man fall. “Edric,” he shouted, “There are others here, Edric there are others… here…” He fell on his knees.

He stumbled onto his feet, resting his weight against a tree as if his legs were too weak to bear it. His mind began to recover what little it could recover. Battle. Fire, burn them all. Burn them all! Taste of blood, on his tongue. Running, panting for air and running, as the ground kept spinning under him.

Edric stood in front of him, quite in the distance he could make out the Commander. “No,” he whispered, though he wanted to shout, he wanted to reach out his hand, and he wanted to run, but his legs stumbled under him, causing him to fall on his knees.

He heard the whistle once more, as he searched for his sword on the ground. He found the handle, collecting whatever power he had left in himself, he turned, readying himself in attack position.

He could barely make out the figure, tall, in black cape, and more behind him, one launching an arrow toward where he thought Edric would be. He heard Edric’s whistle, he heard the fight behind him. More shapes draw more arrows.

“Give in to it, boy,” he heard. Was it the shape talking to him, or was it some demon in his mind? Was he finally going mad?

“Come on, you know you want to,” he heard and shook his head frantically. No.

The Night King. The Night King is here, he must kill the Night King. He must do it, here, else everything will be lost, the battle will be lost, and the living will be lost with it. He must kill HIM, now. Here.

“Give in to it, little dragonwolf,” the voice said.

I won’t.

And yet, he did, as finally it all went black and the world spinned, lifting him up in the air.

His body hit the ground. All he had time for before it slammed into the mud was to look up to the sky, the trees spinning around him. Look, higher and higher with all the might that his dazed mind could muster, until his eyes were but all white. He was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I may not post over the weekend and Monday - not because I left you with a Mount Everest sized cliffhanger (that’s be cruel! Even from me!) but because I have a major furniture delivery sometime On Monday and there’s serious amount of packing to do + painting the dining room (I won’t be able to move the cabinet once it’s in situ so have to paint first if I want it done). Once done and settled I’ll write the next chapters - I just really wanted this out. Even I needed a battle after all the politics! 😉


	62. The Gods Eye IV.

“Come on Edric, you fucker!” Griff shook the body. They had no time for this. Edric merely hummed something, his face distorted, Arrow piercing his left upper arm.

“Look” Grey Worm called out, and Griff turned just in time to see. The walkers were turning away from them. He wanted to yell out, No, as Ser Jorah and the Dothraki, that still remained, attacked the walker remaining last while the rest began to cross. The rambling was almost unbearable – they must’ve frozen the river once more, Griff thought.

The walker smashed the Dothraki aside, opening himself to Ser Jorah’s attack. The launch was perfect, Griff wondered, and yet, as the dragonglass dagger pierced its heart, the walker grabbed Ser Jorah by the throat. It reached straight into the chest. Griff wanted to close his eyes, to not see, and as he couldn’t force himself not to see, he wanted to unsee, knowing well that this will be the scene that will haunt him in his nightmares for years, alongside the most gruesome kills he witnessed over the years. In its last moment of life, the walker gripped Ser Jorah’s heart out of his chest, before turned to ice, cracking into a million pieces, and Jorah Mormont’s lifeless body fell to the ground among millions of ice crystals.

The rambling returned once more, as the ice on the lake exploded. How utterly futile, Griff thought, as if they needed the ice to come here. Yet he knew, they had to leave. Once more he shook Edric Snow’s motionless body, knowing well that his friend was not to wake. But he was still living, Griff could feel the pulse in his wrist, his breath still clouded around at every hollow exhale. Grey Worm pulled on Griff’s shoulder and he stood.

The two unsullied with them grabbed the body, one at each end, and began to run. Griff also moved, but for a moment turned. He had reason to stop. The bodies of their fallen were seemingly moving. He had only moments, he knew. He grabbed Ser Jorah’s sword, before pulling Jon’s dragonglass dagger, the one he found in the woods looking for Jon, finding only spots of blood on the side of a tree, where he found the dagger. He knelt to smash it straight into Jorah Mormont’s body. Jon said once, bodies are to be burned, and dead dies by dragonglass or Valyrian steel. Jorah Mormont deserved better than the fate of those rotting in the army of the dead. He had no means to burn the body, this was all he could do, while his mind already cursed the fact that he’s only found Jon’s dagger. Not only Jon was gone – Blackfyre disappeared with him.

The company follows the man who wields the sword, he remarked to himself bitterly as he stood, and ran after the others, just as the fallen unsullied and Dothraki began to awake.

*****

Dany circled around once more above the island. Jon Connington was leaving now. Her heart ached. Yet she felt gratitude, more than she thought she could ever feel, for Connington as she watched the fallen rise once more. All of them, but Ser Jorah. Connington succeeded, Dany understood then. She was already here, to aid them, but she was glad not having to direct Drogon to burn Ser Jorah, even if it wasn’t Ser Jorah anymore.

As Drogon breathed fire on the rising dead in the clearing, Dany looked ahead. Their men were scattering, most of them running or riding south, some of them mistakenly running north, or even west – to certain death, Dany knew.

She watched as the Night King walked away from the water, surrounded by his captains, the white walkers. There he turned, and it seemed his eyes were straight on her. As if he smirked at her, challenged her. She cried out, “No!” as the Night King raised his arms.

Drogon drove in, breathing fire at the walkers, at the Night King himself, albeit Dany knew well that it was to no avail. The fallen began to rise in earnest, everywhere she looked.

She knew, what she has to do. As she began to circle to the south, she wondered where to draw the line. Most of the living were already beyond Drogon’s circle, in the relative safety as far as Dany was concerned, some of them still running across the field among rising wights. They never had a chance, even without us, Dany thought, as Drogon began to burn a line separating the battlefield from those who already were beyond.

I’m sorry, I am so sorry.

Drogon turned, circling around, breathing fire, completing a circle. It was what Jon liked to do. Close them in, annihilate them. Jon, who must be surely dead by now, Dany thought. All she knew was that Jon never came out of the woods, never fought the Night King. That’s what she saw. And even now, as the island burned in earnest, ancient heart tree surrounded by the weir woods all burning, one by one taking on the fire, Jon still didn’t appear. Soon enough the whole of the island will burn. No, Jon was dead. She had to do what Jon would do, now, she had to annihilate them, bide time once more for the living to escape.

*****

He ran, as fast as he could, panting for air, smelling the blood, smelling death. Around him, bodies smelling both were moving, eyes were opening, their colour the coldest of blue, exactly like ice. And the living, they were screaming as they stumbled, and ran, the opposite direction.

Run. Run for your life, you fool, what have you done?!

*****

A dragon shrieked in the distance, flying around aimlessly. Sansa crouched back, behind the stone. This was idiotic, she told herself. She had Arya on one side, Tyrion on the other. Except… she turned. Arya was no longer here. She wanted to jump up, but Tyrion pulled her back.

“We run or we die,” she hissed. Tyrion merely nodded. Oh, he knew.

“I still think it could’ve worked between us,” he said, referring to their earlier conversation as they watched the fires of the battle, listening to the cheers of the men. They were winning, Sansa was certain. She saw Jon’s dragon as it lowered below the treeline on the island and flew away straight after. That was when she leisurely told Tyrion, it would’ve never worked between them, his loyalties would’ve become a problem. Missandei hissed something about it, and Sansa looked away from the battle. When she looked back, it was as if she was watching a different battle – screams and shouts, the sounds of anarchy along with Jon’s dragon flying around erratically over the battlefield, over the island, shrieking. It wasn’t long before the first runners reached them, but that was not why they hid.

By the time the first runners reached their encampment, the earth began to shake. Hands of skeletons appeared, and heads, and bodies climbing out from under the ground, attacking the running men as they neared. It must’ve been a cemetery, old enough to be unmarked, for Sansa couldn’t recall a single gravestone. Or perhaps a battlefield from the last wars, dead buried in haste and forgotten. What did it matter?

They were dead no longer, they were running about in the encampment, chasing the living. Sansa peaked out from behind the stone, only to see Arya, fighting with a lance. She amazed her. At the same time, the fight empowered her.

“I will not cower here to die,” she said, looking at Tyrion. Tyrion reached to draw the short dagger he carried; his other hand still held Sansa’s. To her surprise, he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. Then he stood, and she jumped as well, letting go of him to draw Longclaw, just in time for the first attack.

In a short distance, there were horses, and men mounting, fighting off any nearing wight. They were yelling, “Your grace! Your grace, here!”

She began to fight her way through the dead, and perhaps even the living, cutting at anything that was in her way as she ran toward them. She grabbed the reins held out for her, screaming from the pain as her linen covered hand pulled her weight while she jumped, but she kicked her heel into the side of the horse, slashing back once more at the wight who just reached her, and she was on the move. She will not die here tonight.

*****

“They don’t swim.” Their leader whispered. “Just be fucking silent, they won’t come for a few in a boat.”

“How do you know?” Another asked in a shaking voice so clearly filled with dread.

“Because this dragonfucker told the Mad Queen or what,” the leader hissed, “and she told me, get it? The dead don’t swim. We’ll wait it out. Unless of course you fuckers make more noise, then they’ll surely find us, and we’ll never be able to get out of this fucking boat. So shut the fuck up.”

“They’ll take the land, though,” the man whispered.

“Yes, and they’ll chase dragonboy’s armies south. They won’t stay here. We’ll get to the shore once they are gone. Now, shut up, no more talk.”

For a while, they were silent, listening to the screams on land. The lake was silent, the only sound being the low bumps by the shattered pieces of ice hitting the small boat. It was almost dark here – the battle was on the other side of the island, hidden by the dense treeline, they could only see the signs of fires high up in the sky. There was no one here. No living or dead cared to come for them, none even spared a thought of them.

None, but one.

“Look,” one of them straightened up, pointing toward the land.

On land, direwolves, a good two dozen of them lined the edge of the lake. Angry, their teeth showing as they silently growled. They also didn’t want to make any sound. They were tired, so very tired from their hasty run up here, but they found the men in the black capes. The white one padded the ground with its feet, impatiently. Its red eyes shone like the dragonfires on the other side.

“They look like they are waiting for us,” One of the men whined at the sight.

“Shut the fuck up, for the last time,” their leader hissed, “Or far worse will be waiting for you soon!”

*****

“Altogether eight thousand, your grace,” Qyburn summed up, ending his report.

Eight Thousand. Cersei took a deep breath. She didn’t want eight thousand. She wanted forty thousand – the number that she expected was yet to mobilise in the Reach.

“Neither Redwyne, nor Hightower,” she remarked.

“No, your grace, neither have arrived on time,” Qyburn confirmed. “However, Lord Baelor of Hightower has sent a raven. He writes, he has called his banners as your grace suggested for him to arrive ensuring his own safety, he sees that he’s to come with his forces for he fears for his safety. He must be on the march by now, your grace, with twenty thousand, if his scroll is to be believed.”

Twenty thousand. Now that wasn’t so bad at all. That made it twenty-eight. Cersei wondered once more how many did the bastard and his silver-haired bitch have? Excluding the Golden Company, of course. Perhaps she’s even matched them, with twenty-eight thousand.

“And Redwyne?” she asked.

“No message, your grace,” she received the answer. “Perhaps already on the march, and he’ll arrive on the morrow…”

“Redwyne won’t arrive on the morrow, you fool,” Cersei hissed. Qyburn looked somewhat startled, embarrassed, but certainly, confused. She sighed.

“Redwyne is son-by-marriage to that snake Olenna,” she explained, “the snake who poisoned my son, who declared for Daenerys Targaryen. No, if Redwyne is not here yet, he will not arrive.” Then a thought hit her.

“Or perhaps, you are right,” she said, her tone considerable lighter, “Hightower fears for his safety, as soon as he comes into inheritance, and Redwyne is late… Now we know the situation of the reach, at last.” Qyburn still didn’t get it, but Cersei waved it away. She had neither the time nor the patience to educate her Hand, the failure that he was. She regretted the day she named him.

She turned back toward the northeast, even stepping out to the balcony. In the far distance, the fires were still visible, tiny dots shining in the darkness, now disappearing at the first rays on sunlight lightening the bottom of the sky from the east. Suddenly, the chill run through her, she shivered. It’s getting cold.

“There was a battle last night,” She remarked, as she pulled closer the blanket that Qyburn laid on her shoulders just then. When no answer came, she looked at the Hand. His expression startled her. “What is it?”

“The cold,” Qyburn said lowly, “It’s too sudden. It’s unnatural.”

*****

The silence that settled felt even more deafening than the roaring of the ice on the lake and the screams that followed it. But the screams died out, slowly, agonisingly. Jon recalled how it was at Hardhome. Rumbling sound, screams… then suddenly nothing. This was the opposite, the roaring explosion of the ice he could hear in the distance was almost immediately followed by the screams of panic, thousands upon thousands trying to escape. It was carnage, he knew. He tried not to lament it, not to blame himself. If this was his most immediate problem, for once in his life he would count himself lucky.

No, his most burning problem was the fact that his body was floating in a fucking boat right in front of his eyes, and he stood here, trapped in the body of his own direwolf, unable to awaken his own. Something locked him out, something he couldn’t figure, couldn’t identify. He tried to think hard, as he waited. Perhaps the body was too far away – whenever he warged, he always made sure that he returned to exactly where his body was. He knew it shouldn’t have been necessary, but for some reason he always wanted to see his own body before he awoke, as he thought about it, because that’s how it really felt to him. Right now, the body was wrapped. He couldn’t enter the mind, his own mind, it felt separated from him, way too far away for him to reach.

Perhaps it was this pounding headache. Whenever he warged, he’s never had anything like this. But whenever he warged into Ghost, he’s always done it on his own accord. This time, it felt almost as if his mind was pushing him out of itself, as if he was being pushed off a cliff. The pressure from it grew so unbearable so suddenly, that he had to leave, to escape it. Normally he’d be calling out, looking for Ghost, looking for the connection. This time he was out before he had the connection, for a split moment he felt a complete nothingness before he opened his eyes again. He looked down on his paws – Ghost’s paws – padding the ground, as he did when he opened his eyes – Ghost’s eyes – for the first time after that. And then there’s the dizziness – whatever hit him and forced him out of his mind, also made him so incredibly dizzy, the earth was spinning under his feet. By now he recalled it all, how he couldn’t stand on his own feet, how it wore him down so rapidly, as if stones were being packed onto every inch of his body, at the same time lifting him up into the air and spinning him, faster and faster.

He reached out once more, as the boat began to near. They were hushing about in the boat, most likely readying themselves to come to land. But no, he couldn’t reach, his own mind seemed way too far away.

But it wasn’t! He watched from behind a tree how they dragged his body onto the land. How two of them grabbed it and tossed it across the back of the largest of them. Then they began to move, and he watched as his own hand began to dangle sticking out from under the cape his body was wrapped in, in rhythm of the steps the man took.

No, it was something powerful that kept him out. But what? Was it the same thing that caused him to leave?

He followed them for what seemed like hours, as they walked around the island. Time to time they stopped, and one went ahead, giving him time as well to take it in. It was daylight now, the ground covered in thick mist, but he knew, it was also covered in blood. Not because of the battle he fought here, no – it was because of the carnage that ensued after these black caped fools appeared. And now they were taking him away.

There were no dead in sight. Of course not – they were likely pursuing the living toward the south, Jon thought. Looking south however, he couldn’t see much, the fog was way too thick to see far enough in order to see any signs that they were there, or anyone else.

Jon’s thoughts wondered at who he might have lost. Edric and Griff he was certain of – they were on the island with him. These idiots shot at Edric, because Edric came to his aid, just like he did at the Long Lake. Jon’s heart – Ghost’s heart – twisted at the thought. If he ever makes it into his own body, if he ever comes across Edric Snow again, and if in the slim chance of a miracle Edric Snow won’t appear at that meeting as a blue-eyed corpse – then Jon will tell him that he forgives him. It was time to forgive.

He expected Dany was safe – after all she was atop Drogon. He also hoped that Dany could burn the dead, before many rose, and burn those that fell victim during the carnage when the dead rose again.

Arya, Reed, Sansa… they were south. Knowing them, they were watching the battle. Hopefully they had enough time to turn and escape, before even the escapees reached them. He was hopeful, that they made it. Thank the Gods.

They reached the first hills. They’ve been walking for way too long, for one man to carry the body for another, Jon knew. He’s followed them from safe distance, they couldn’t even see him, no, the fog was his camouflage. But he could smell them – Ghost could smell them.

For the first time, he turned. He felt it, but he wanted to be sure, his pack was still here. Now, they surrounded him. They really weren’t his pack – his pack is Sansa and Arya, he reminded himself – these were members of Ghost’s pack. They perhaps also knew that something was amiss, but still, they were loyal beasts – they followed.

Slowly he ventured close to where they camped. Oh, but they were smart, they lit no fire. They curled up in blankets against the stone cliff, and in front of them, just to the left, laid their cargo.

The fools… he’ll freeze like this.

Perhaps they realised, for one stood and wrapped another cape over the body. Then he returned to curl up against the others. It must’ve been afternoon by now, Jon knew. They’ll likely rest for an hour or two, but they’ll go further, likely tonight. He had to take this opportunity to get close, to at least know for certain. To prove it to himself, to be able to believe it, be able to hope.

Know what… at least name it for yourself.

Know if the body was dead. If he was trapped here in the body of his own direwolf because his own body was dead.

He slowly went closer, gently nudging his nose into the layers of cape, until he reached skin. He smelled his own hair, pushing away the cape he saw his own face, eyes closed. Perhaps that was the reason? In any case, he gained the certainty he required, as he – Ghost – licked his own cheek, he felt it – warmth. This was not a dead body. But it didn’t seem so naturally warm as if it was living either. No, it felt like… dying. Slowly dying.

In any case, these black capes are taking him somewhere, believing him to be alive. In which case, they are certainly better suited to get him out of here, from behind the enemy line, out of the land of the dead. They are much better suited than a pack of wolves.

He felt the sudden urge to howl – To cry. He forced himself not to, as he nudged the layers of the capes back to cover the face. He doesn’t want his nose to freeze off, either. Once the morons have taken him to safety, somehow, then he’ll reclaim his body. Then he’ll figure out how to keep it alive, how to return to it. For now, he’ll just follow, and watch, and perhaps he’ll learn who these black capes were. And who sent them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little chapter to move from the cliffhanger and answer some questions, rushed a bit to be able to publish it today (sorry!)  
> Also apologies, but I don't remember any description of the warging experience. In any case, the description here is not of a "standard" warging experience. Artistic license has been taken (and abused) hahah
> 
> (Oh, and PS, this won’t become some kind of supernatural story with e.g. Jon ruling Westeros in the shape of Ghost and forming all kind of friendships and be accepted as if he was in his human forms and have chatters and the like. I feel I need to add that - even if it’s a spoiler - that’s not where we are heading, promise.)
> 
>  
> 
> DEADCOUNT  
> \- RIP Ser Jorah Mormont - sorry Ser Jorah, I really didn't know what else to do with you... Dany'll miss you I'm sure.


	63. The Crownlands I.

 

 

Howland Reed rushed forth from his tent. The commotion, shouting and cursing was something he’s never heard in the camp before, through weeks of fighting and retreating the men never behaved like this. He hurried along with the rest of the men, to see what the fuss was about.

When he saw it, he could not believe his eyes. What he saw was a man, in a black cape, lined with black furs, hood on his head, slowly leading a horse through the camp.

“Have you gone mad?!” He yelled out, and the men around him turned. He rushed to push them out of his way, to reach Benjen Stark before somebody else’s sword would.

“Would it be better if I rode into camp?” Benjen asked. “They cannot kill me, Howland. I am already dead.”

“Tell it to your nephew and nieces,” Reed hissed, turning towards the crowd.

“I know what you think,” He yelled out, “We are haunted by dead men and one walks into camp, and you thirst for revenge… This man helped us all along this war. This is Benjen Stark, uncle to your Queen. Think before you do anything you may regret when Jon returns.”

“When will he return?!” A man yelled.

“Aye, he was to fight,” another cried out, “Then disappears? I say he ran from the fight; he won’t return!”

Many joined in. It was exactly what Reed expected. What they saw, what they experienced, their victory snatched from their hands and the run for their lives, to escape, made them doubt everything they knew and fought for. Reed knew this will come, all it needed was a spark. He even warned Sansa about it – though it wasn’t like either of them could have done anything to avoid it. Sansa could only repeat what Reed knew all too well – they need Jon’s return, and preferably soon, and even more preferably, with the head of the Night King and the news that they are no longer being chased by a new army of the dead after the one they annihilated at the Gods Eye.

Still, he was stunned at the degree of discontent. Just as shocking as hearing the cursing and shouting was that brought him forth from his solitude, the animosity he faced now was far worse than he expected.

“Jon’s been taken,” Reed heard Benjen behind him and turned in an instant.

“I saw it,” Benjen explained, his voice growing desperate, “Jon has been taken by living breathing men, not by the dead. He didn’t fight because he’s been taken.”

The men who heard were murmuring, shushing replaced the shouting in mere moments, “What was he saying?” was repeated again and again, until the whole crowd quieted somewhat.

“I know you, Benjen Stark,” a man yelled out, and both Reed and Benjen turned toward the voice. A small, middle aged soldier stepped forward. “Perhaps you remember me too, we drank many a pint together.”

“Aye, I remember,” Benjen said, albeit his eyebrows narrowed. “You have two boys; I remember one was to join the Watch. You used to take them boys to the wall whenever your cart was too loaded. This man used to deliver us supplies from Winterfell,” Benjen explained to Reed. “It’s been a long while, I can’t seem to recall your name, my friend. How are them boys?” He asked, turning back toward the man.

“Gone,” the man said bitterly, “Came south with Robb Stark, one was slain at the Whispering Wood, the other at the Red Wedding.”

“I am sorry to hear,” Benjen said lowly.

“Aye, I am sorry to say,” the man said, “For I came south too with the Starks, and now I’ll be dead and worse, too, like all these good men!”

“It won’t come to that,” Reed shook his head.

“How do you know, Lord Hand?!” A man yelled, “Are the dead not followin’ us? And those we lost, they are with them now, are they not comin’ to kill us?”

Benjen gave Reed a sorry look.

Once more they began to grow louder in their discontent, until suddenly they fell silent. Reed and Benjen both turned to see what they perceived the reason why.

“Uncle,” Sansa whispered, stopping mid-motion.

“Your Grace,” Benjen bowed deep. For a moment no one spoke, the men eagerly awaiting what will unfold of the situation. Finally, Sansa waived them to follow her. All their men taking part in the commotion, all those who lined their path were silently watching. Reed was wondering if one of them will lash out with a sword, or a dagger… Benjen looked worse than the last time Reed saw him, in the marshes by the riverbank. When he took Jon to meet his uncle, in order to talk some courage into him.

It’s been a while since he even ‘conversed’ with Benjen, as he called it – it wasn’t really a conversation. Reed would get his dreams – not like his usual green dreams, which sometimes were easy to understand considering the circumstances, sometimes he had to accept that a lifetime wouldn’t be enough for him to decipher the meaning behind what he saw. Lately those were the only dreams he had. His Stark dreams were much more direct, and was he not an aging man with all the experience he’s gained, he would’ve surely been frightened of them. But back then, when he began reaching out for Benjen, truth be told he found already that he can hardly be frightened anymore by anything.

In truth, it started with Jon – like many things did in the past twenty-some years. Jon, his escape from The Long Lake, Jon’s revelation that it was his dead uncle that helped him. Reed was merely intrigued at first, but combined with the dream that night – he began looking for Benjen the next day. It took him the good part of a week to find the man. It’s not easy for a raven to fly around looking for one man, even if the land is covered in snow and the man dressed in black.

Their conversations were different to anything else Reed has known. He only experienced similar with Bran Stark before. He resigned to the blood of the first men, specifically, the blood of the Kings of Winter flowing in the veins of the Starks being the power behind it. Not that he ever had anything similar with the Queen, or Jon even. If he could ‘converse’ with Jon the way he did with Bran and Benjen Stark, so many things would’ve been different.

But only Bran, and later, Benjen appeared in Howland Reed’s dreams.

They were easy to understand – in Bran’s case, he was either talking, as if Reed was in front of him, his face completely emotionless during his lengthy, sometimes complex monologues. In fact, once he actually met Bran Stark, Reed was shocked at how introverted the boy was, compared to his talkativeness in his dreams. Sometimes he was warging, and Reed followed the raven, seeing what Bran saw. Benjen was harder to decipher – he never talked. Reed at first only dreamt of Benjen Stark, seeing him crossing the wall, seeing his pale grey dead face was the first thing Reed ever dreamed about, and he ‘followed’ Benjen for a long while after, as he kept tracking – he tracked their army as well as the army of the dead, and Reed could feel his thoughts, as if they were his own.

It all changed when Reed found the man. He didn’t get near, he merely circled above, before he left, memorising where he found Benjen. That night he dreamt again – and when he ‘arrived’ the first thing Benjen thought of was, “You’re back. You were here, and you didn’t come to me.”

Later Reed realised that Benjen didn’t know who it was that kept invading his mind this way. They grew into a routine, which, until that day by the riverbank Reed didn’t exactly know how it worked for Benjen. But in his dreams, Benjen answered questions, albeit Reed never figured out how to ask. Not all his questions were answered either, and most of those that were, the answers at times puzzled him more than his more ‘conventional’ green dreams.

They reached Sansa’s tent, finally away from all the prying eyes. When Sansa turned, her face was nothing of the mask of the Queen she was. Her eyes were shining brightly from the tears that wanted to break free, her cheeks crimson, she seemed like a child who’s been shown the nameday present yet not allowed to touch it.

“Jon told me what happened to you,” she whispered, “And I would never doubt Jon, but I could not believe it…” her hand covering her mouth, she shook her head.

“It does not matter,” Benjen whispered kindly. “You are Queen, you know what to do.”

“I don’t…” Sansa whispered, as she fell back into her chair. “The men are ready to mutiny, to run away, Jon is gone or worse, and there’s the dead, and Daenerys, and Cersei. Winter is coming.”

“Winter is already here,” Benjen said as matter of fact. “Now is the time to dream of spring.”

Sansa glanced at Reed in disbelief, who merely shrugged it off. He was used to Benjen’s cryptic remarks.

“Jon is not gone, he has been taken,” Benjen said then. “I came here to tell you, for you ought to know. It weren’t the dead that got to him.”

“The dead don’t shoot arrows as far as I am aware,” Sansa said, “And have no reason to not kill Jon. He’s not dead – I would know if he was.”

“How?” Asked both Reed and Benjen.

“Ghost,” Sansa explained, “Whenever Jon goes into battle, he orders Ghost to return to me – to protect me. Sometimes he leaves Ghost behind, sometimes he sends Ghost home because he is going into danger. Ghost was with me during the battle. In fact, a whole pack of wolves were around us. But then, exactly when the battle began to turn, Ghost ran away, straight toward the Gods Eye. He would’ve never done that if Jon were dead, he would’ve stayed with me.”

Reed and Benjen both nodded, processing what they heard.

“It is true,” Reed remarked, as if there was any need for confirmation, “I remember Jon sending Ghost back in case the Wall fell.”

“And he left him behind when he went to Dragonstone,” Sansa added, “And White Harbor, too.”

Benjen nodded once more, “They definitely weren’t dead, I would’ve felt that,” he said. “No, these were living. They also came prepared. They hit Jon and as he fell, they cut him. Then he… I couldn’t reason it, it seemed he cannot stand on his feet. I could only reason it with some kind of poison, the cut they gave him was almost nothing compared to what the dead gave him at the Long Lake. From what I could see, for I was too far in front. I was too far to prevent it, and they shot down any man who tried.”

“They were standing right there next to him and still, it seemed as if he could not see them, he got to attack and it seemed that he couldn’t. He kept calling out for Edric Snow. Then he fell, and they simply wrapped him in a cape and flung him over the shoulder of one of them and left as if there was no battle at all.”

*****

Tyrion couldn’t believe his ears. He only stopped a mere few moments ago, wondering where the guards were from Sansa’s tent, or if she even had any. She really should, he was about to consider the implications of a young and beautiful Queen in the middle of a camp full of discontented, angry soldiers, when he began to pick up the voice. He remembered knowing the voice but couldn’t place it. Even more strange was what it said.

Suddenly an acute sense of guilt has hit him. They could only discuss their missing leader. In truth, it was the reason why he came. Following the lengthy conversation with Daenerys – during which he repeatedly tried to convince her to focus on making a plan to take the Iron Throne without Jon, and she repeatedly kept telling him that the dead are the true enemy, they killed Jon, Tyrion felt the need to see how Sansa was doing. After all, if his Queen was to be believed, Jon Snow/Targaryen meant a whole lot more to Sansa than anyone else – certainly him. But he still cared, as he always did, for the girl who received nothing but vile, despicable and cruel treatment at the hand of his kin, he was always keen to protect her. He couldn’t protect her now, not from this, but he wanted to, if nothing else, express his condolences. He didn’t expect what he’s heard, and now he felt even more guilty for listening in, albeit by accident.

He cleared his throat, intentionally loudly, before he pulled the flap and entered the tent.

“Forgive me for the interruption, Your Grace,” he said, bowing to Sansa, “I came to see how you were coping, if I could be of assistance…”

He already turned as he finished the sentence, to see who the mysterious man was in the black hooded cape. He startled, taking a few steps back as he saw the face.

“Benjen Stark,” he remarked, “And when I think there is nothing that could surprise me… I remember you from that disastrous royal visit to Winterfell, you arrived during the feast and I bumped into you just as I was escaping it. I recall you went lost beyond the wall, young Jon was beside himself eager to go and find you. And now, on your face is the reason of your disappearance, I can tell. I am Tyrion Lannister.”

“You would be hard not to recognise, Tyrion Lannister,” Benjen responded.

“True,” Tyrion remarked with his usual smirk, “Not many can match me in stature, or in fame, that is true.”

“Fame, or notoriety,” Benjen shrugged.

“It is all the same, if you ask me,” Tyrion countered. “But for once I hear I am not the most hated man in this camp. The men are brewed hot and ready for mutiny, I heard the talk of Jon being a coward running from the fight after leading them here on my coming here.”

Sansa let out a deep sigh.

“I also heard your tale of, how you said it?” Tyrion allowed his relief to form a smile on his face, as he quoted, “A man wrapped in a cape and flung over the shoulder of someone, leaving as if there was no battle at all. That is called kidnapping where I come from.”

“It’s Jon,” Sansa confirmed what Tyrion already believed. “Benjen was on the island, and he saw some men somehow taking Jon.”

“It would perhaps help the situation then if the men were told,” Tyrion remarked, “Before they turn on you and revolt.”

“They won’t revolt,” Benjen declared.

“And how would you know that,” Tyrion asked nonchalantly. “As much as I can tell, discontent too easily can lead to revolt. Queen Sansa can testify to that, we’ve seen it happen in Kings Landing.”

Sansa’s face darkened. She didn’t like to be reminded of those memories, especially not the one that used to give her so many sleepless nights – men holding her down in the alleyway, one of them spreading her legs while she kept kicking and screaming… then Sandor Clegane came. There was a time when she believed this to be her worst memory. In truth, it was nothing, really.

“You need more than a dead man’s word,” Benjen remarked.

“We have more,” Reed declared, as if the solution just occurred to him. “Or we will, if Edric Snow awakes. I believe he’s seen something – the dead don’t use arrows.”

“No, the black caped men did,” Benjen agreed.

“Well, perhaps then it is time we pay Lord Edric a visit,” Tyrion delivered his assessment, as if it was the solution to all their problems. “Perhaps Lord Reed, I could accompany you, for I am certain that is where you’ll be heading straight away.”

*****

Their walk was mostly silent. Not because Tyrion didn’t want to talk. He didn’t insist on accompanying Reed because he was keen to see more of the northern camp, as it was called, now more because it was exactly that – the camp of the northmen, crannogmen and the wolves, all those who subjected themselves to the Queen in the North. In Tyrion’s mind it was becoming a more subjective affair, who one saw as their own rightful ruler – it almost became a personal choice. Of course, most men looked at their origins, their traditions, and accepted the rule above them. But wolves, men of the Golden Company, and men like Samwell Tarly and Davos Seaworth – they all made a choice. Albeit Tyrion couldn’t be certain when it came to the Company, definitely not certain enough to trouble his own Queen, but he couldn’t believe the Company would ever turn against the North. No, they owed fealty to Jon, and – as far as Tyrion was concerned – Jon was a Northman, through and through. He saw it as one of the biggest advantages of Jon, among the many others he came to identify and, to speak honestly, even admire.

He was looking for the words to express so many things to Lord Howland Reed, walking beside him, steadily, in haste. Oh, he was looking forward to this opportunity for too long. But for once, and this occurred so rarely that it even amused him, he found himself struggling to find the start of the conversation that he wanted to have.

“I am struggling for words,” he said finally, and Reed glanced at him. “To converse. I mean, I was looking forward to a conversation with you Lord Reed. Your role in the scheme of things is quite fascinating to me. First you are there when Ned Stark snatched away his nephew, then I hear you delivered him the sword that turned the Golden Company, vowing to serve him, you became his advisor, at once even advising my Queen about the state of play quite ably, albeit somewhat biased if you ask me… I don’t necessarily agree with all of your views. However, now you are Hand of the Queen in the North, so naturally no longer serving or advising Jon Targaryen.”

“I am of the North,” Reed said bluntly. “Jon will leave the North, if your Queen get her way. My place is in the North. There’s nothing more to it.”

“I thought Crannogmen don’t meddle in politics,” Tyrion grinned.

“We don’t,” Reed agreed, “We are solitary folk. Don’t trouble us and we won’t trouble you. We like our slow lives in the marshes… we did. But these are not the times for that.”

“No, and so you became a politician,” Tyrion agreed.

“I’ve not,” Reed countered somewhat coldly, “Winter was coming, Lord Hand, those are not just the Stark words. It’s been coming for the past years.”

“Is that why you became so well versed in politics, Lord Hand,” Tyrion asked, “Because the dead were coming?”

Reed chuckled aloud. “No, my Lord Hand,” he said, “Because the rightful heir was coming. I won’t deny it, I didn’t deny it to your Queen. Jon is the rightful heir. But raised as he was, despite all the education and training, and sent to the Wall, it didn’t seem to be the right background for a future king. That is why I did what I could to gain the knowledge that he didn’t know he needed to gain.”

“And knowledge is power,” Tyrion declared, “So now, you are a powerful man indeed, my Lord Hand.”

“Anyone can acquire knowledge, my Lord Hand,” Reed’s voice was so calm, Tyrion was certain that the probing didn’t even phase the man the least bit. “What makes a man stand out is what they do with it. Take you, for example, you were born into power, with your name, you could’ve learned anything and be anything. And you spend your time and knowledge with spiders and little birds.”

It infuriated Tyrion. For a moment after he bit back some witty remark which likely wouldn’t have been witty at all, considering his angry state of mind, he felt downright insulted. Then he chuckled. “It is interesting really,” he remarked instead, “Jon made a similar remark to me a while ago.”

“And you still don’t understand,” Reed said as he stopped in front of a tent, “You are said to be one of the most intelligent men of Westeros. Perhaps you ought to use your knowledge, my Lord Hand.”

*****

The tent smelled of all kinds of healing potions, that sickening mixture of salt and must and acid that made Tyrion’s stomach turn. There were two wolf-men in the tent, who moved silently to leave as they entered, leaving only Jon Connington and Tyrion’s brother. He didn’t even have the chance to greet his brother, he noted to himself, and how odd, they meet for the first time after the battle in where else, but the northern camp. How odd indeed, that Jaime would spend his time with Jon Connington by the bedside of one Lord Edric Snow. Tyrion made a mental note of it, something to think about, later.

Edric Snow laid on a camp bed. This war didn’t seem to agree with Edric Snow, for the second time bedridden, yet this was different. Snow seemed to be dead in fact, nothing could’ve given away that the man was still living. Even his chest didn’t rise as it normally would with each breath, and Reed leaned close, laying his head on Lord Edric’s chest to be certain.

“He’s not dead,” Griff protested.

“No, he is not,” Reed looked up, a smile of relief settling on his face.

“What I don’t understand is,” said Jaime Lannister, stepping closer to the camp bed and their group, nodding to Tyrion, “How can an arrow to the arm knock him out. The maester found no other injury, few scratches and cuts.”

Reed straightened, seemingly deep in thought.

“Where is the arrow?”

Griff nodded toward the chest on which, wrapped in linen, the arrow rested. Reed unwrapped it now, holding it up, studying it. Tyrion chuckled at the scene – these northmen, they can make such simple things into the most dramatic turns. It was just an arrow, nothing more, not unlike any other arrow in the camps.

Then Reed smelled the arrowhead, and at that Tyrion really had to chuckle, especially because he smelled it again, and again, his face deep in concentration.

“I cannot identify it,” Reed said then with a defeated expression.

“So you agree, Lord Reed,” Jaime declared, “It has been poisoned. I told the maester, but he didn’t find anything amiss.”

“No, I cannot tell what it is either,” Reed murmured, still studying the arrow. He then gently laid it back and wrapped the linen around it. Then he motioned back to the Wolf commander laying on the campbed unconsciously. He pulled up an eyelid, and Tyrion unwillingly leaned closer, as if there was something to see.

There was. Tyrion startled back, seeing the commander’s black eye, as he was in agony, as if he was in dread – the eye moved erratically as if trying to take in the whole world and see.

“He will not die,” Reed stood straight once more, looking at Connington. “It seems to me, that is how the poison works – it traps the mind.”

“What shall we do about it?” Griff asked desperately.

“Well,” Reed took in the sight of Edric Snow once more, as if measuring up the commander. “We have reason to believe that the same was used on Jon. Which tells me, there is an end to it. Why take Jon’s body away, if it was poisoned to death? No, this is but temporary, formulated to trap the mind, so the body can be taken. By the time the effect of the poison fades, anything could be done to the body, with no preventing of it while a man is in such a state.”

Wait,” Jaime Lannister took one step closer, “You say, Jon was taken. We thought Jon was dead.”

“We have reason, multiple reasons to believe that he is not dead,” Reed said softly, “We know some men wearing black capes got to Jon on the Gods Eye, in the woods. They took him, once he fell unconscious. That is why he never came out of the woods to fight.”

“And you know this, how?” Jaime asked in disbelief.

“A witness,” Reed explained, “And his missing direwolf. Was he dead, the wolf would be by the Queen’s side, those are his orders. The wolf ran into the battle as the men retreated, and never returned.”

“The wolf may have fallen to the dead,” Griff shook his head. He was grieving, he didn’t want hope for hope’s sake with nothing but more despair to follow when hope proved itself to be futile once more. “Or the dragon’s fire. There may be many reasons for the wolf not to return.”

“You had hope for over twenty years, Griff,” Reed laid his hand on Connington’s shoulder, his voice full of kindness, “Would it be too hard for you to not lose hope for just a little longer?”

“What we ought to focus on is, who were the men,” Tyrion interrupted, drawing attention to what troubled him in this tale the most. “Some men knew where to be, and in the midst of the worst battle one could imagine they chose to abduct the commander of our armies. It’s a brave deed, almost senselessly brave.”

“I agree,” Reed said, “Which would tell me they weren’t your sisters’ – I cannot imagine anyone acting in your sisters’ interest out of conviction, and to do this, a man has to have conviction, deep and unwavering conviction in a cause.”

“Perhaps they are in pact with the dead, then,” Jaime declared.

“Based on all I know, that is impossible,” Reed said, “Based on what Bran Stark has told us, that is impossible. The dead want all men to join them, the Night King to rule over an endless dark night of winter.”

“I thought someone made a pact with them once,” Tyrion interrupted, “Isn’t that how the Long Night ended? Azor Ahai defeated them and they made a pact? Returned to the Land of Always Winter? I remember reading it somewhere.”

“There are many stories, and even more theories,” Reed said. “Some are even gruesome, claiming the Northmen had to give up their children time to time as part of that pact. I for one doubt it, my Lord Hand. No, whoever the men were who took Jon, they work with an enemy who is still breathing.”

Reed turned toward Edric Snow then. “When Lord Edric wakes, perhaps we’ll know more. He must’ve seen something to gain this arrow. I’m more interested in the tale he will tell, than theories and stories of old. We have to find Jon before the dead reach us, and without knowing more, we stand little chance.”

“Who are Jon’s enemies besides the dead?” Griff asked then. “He kept saying his fight is against the dead, how it doesn’t matter how… how he gave up his birthright.” He glanced at Tyrion as he said it.

“Well,” Tyrion remarked, “Let’s not forget our sweet sister,” he nodded toward Jaime, “She’s worked hard to gain Jon’s attention, and judging by the fate Jon meted out for Euron Greyjoy, she’s succeeded. My vote is, he’s taken to Kings Landing. That’s the most obvious explanation.”

“I agree,” Jaime said solemnly. “Cersei wouldn’t care about the dead, she never did. She’d only care about who presents a threat to her. Jon being the heir… He’s the biggest threat to Cersei’s rule besides Daenerys.”

Tyrion cleared his throat just then and all three looked. “I suppose I shall give you some information for all the information you all gave me. The Queen was attacked at the start of the battle. The wolves saved her, the white one, Jon’s wolf tore apart the throat of the one who threatened her. And…” he looked up, straight into Reed’s eyes, “They wore black capes.”

*****

“So here we are again,” Jaime remarked as they walked through the northern camp, toward where it met with that of the golden company, and through that the path would eventually lead into the camp of the Unsullied.

“Still alive and breathing,” Tyrion nodded, “It seems to become our greatest achievement.”

“Imagine that,” Jaime smiled, “Father would ask, what have you done to further the Lannister name, how have you built our eternal legacy that I worked so hard for. And we would say, I breathed the air.”

“He’d never ask me,” Tyrion laughed, “I am afraid you’ll be the disappointing son in that conversation. I cannot disappoint this way; he expects nothing more from me than disappointment.”

“Cersei outdid us both, combined,” Jaime whispered, “When she blew up the sept.”

“So she did it?”

Jaime sighed.

“Do you believe it,” He asked instead, “Jon alive somewhere, taken by mysterious men in black capes straight when he was supposed to finally end this war?”

“It sounds like fantasy,” Tyrion agreed with what he sensed behind Jaime’s question, from the doubtful tone of his voice. “Like a fairytale to keep hope alive. But here’s what I know. Jon Snow/Targaryen has fought this war all his adult life. He’s prepared for that fight all along, and defeating the dead is the only thing that drives him. He would not abandon the fight on his own accord.”

“You believe it, too,” Jaime whispered.

“I guess, I need to keep my hopes alive.”

*****

Tyrion walked through the camp of the Company by himself, pondering about it all. Jaime has long left him, turning toward the small Lannister force, or the Lions as they were called, not without appreciation, by the others.

His mind kept wondering about this little trip of his, thus by the time he reached the Unsullied camp and the Queen’s tent, he was convinced – he was right. The man he’s known in Jon would’ve never abandoned the fight. No, what Reed was saying must’ve been the truth, it seemed to Tyrion as if the pieces were falling into place; the poisoned arrow, the attack on the Queen, Jon’s disappearance with no body found, even before the dead on the island began to rise again… No, it must’ve been the truth, Tyrion concluded.

Thus he also explained to the Queen, everything he’s heard, if somewhat downplaying the fact that he’s walked to the northern camp without seemingly any explanation at all. Daenerys immediately jumped to the conclusion that they all debated, the suggestion that Jon has been taken at the order of Cersei. And that made her more furious than Tyrion ever saw her. The relief in her eyes, the hope that perhaps Jon was alive turned to rage in an instant. “It is time,” she kept repeating, “I should’ve taken Kings Landing a long time ago, it is time for her. Her time has come.”

Daenerys wanted to attack Kings Landing. “What about the countless dead,” Tyrion asked, “we don’t even know how many anymore are chasing us south.”

“We have what, fifty thousand? Perhaps we still have sixty,” Daenerys hissed. “I shall take my armies and my dragons and rip her out, root and stem.”

“You mean… burn the city?” Tyrion asked.

“Your grace,” Varys spoke – to Tyrion’s surprise. Indeed, it was almost an event to celebrate when Varys decided to speak, he’s done so with such rarity since they joined the armies.

But Daenerys wanted to hear none of it.

“I said, it is time,” she hissed. “We have been fighting for survival, for HER survival just as well as ours, and she not only abandoned but now betrayed us?! Taking Jon?”

Tyrion watched as she argued; and could see it clearly – it wasn’t the queen who said those last words. No, it was the woman. And a Targaryen woman at that, the scorn she must have felt, the worry for Jon, the love… mixed with the Targaryen rage it became unstoppable, he knew. There was no point trying to convince her otherwise, she will not abandon her goal – Tyrion could see now. He’ll have to figure a different way.

“The dead were always Jon’s fight,” she said then, considerably calmer. “My enemy is the one who withholds from me what is mine.”

“We will kill your enemies,” Grey Worm declared, swore even as if it was an oath, “all of them.”

“Your Grace,” Varys tried once more, as her face turned sour once more. She nodded for him to speak.

“I promised you, I were to look you in the eye and speak directly if I believed that you were making a mistake,” Varys said then, and caught both Tyrion and the Queen’s attention. “This, is a mistake.”

“She took Jon,” Daenerys whispered, her eyes fixed on Varys’, “She’s destroyed our victory over the dead, and perhaps even lost us the war.”

“Cersei needs to be destroyed, that is true,” Varys argued, “But if you attack the city now, with your armies and your dragons, tens of thousands of innocents will die. These are the people you came here to protect; I beg you your grace, do not destroy the city you came to save. Do not become what you’ve always struggled to defeat.”

“They will die if Jon doesn’t defeat the Night King!” She shouted, losing her patience, before she swallowed, and continued with a controlled calmness in her voice, “Do not educate me about my legacy, Lord Varys, I am well aware. I am also aware that it is the past, deeds of my ancestors, and Jon’s ancestors that we never had a chance to change. Jon and I are the future, Lord Varys. Cersei has taken Jon; she’s put that future in danger. The tens of thousands you claim to advocate, they will die and rise in the army of the dead unless we destroy Cersei before they arrive. She’s a tyrant.”

“All Cersei cares about is the Iron Throne, you are right, she is a tyrant,” Tyrion added, “You are also right, the people of Kings Landing are facing almost certain death, no matter the outcome. I don’t think it’s them we need to concern ourselves at this moment.” He searched Varys’ gaze as he spoke, hoping that the old comradery was still there, that Varys will understand what he was playing at.

“You came all this way to claim the Iron Throne,” Varys countered instead, “But an attack on the city will cause the deaths of innocents, I must protest against it.”

“Then what do you propose, Lord Varys?” She asked annoyed, “You counsel me to destroy Cersei, and you counsel me not to attack the city. Cersei is in the city! Cersei is in Kings Landing.”

“I am no military commander, Your Grace,” Varys apologised, “I am merely a counsellor, to share my knowledge and give advice. I’ve done that, there are more suitable men to draw the plans.”

Tyrion raised not one, but both eyebrows at that. What? It sounded as if Varys was eager to put into words his own lack of use.

“Do you believe people are here for a reason, Lord Varys?” She asked suddenly.

“Jon is here to kill the Night King, he’s the Prince that was Promised. And I am here to free the people from tyrants, that is my destiny. I will serve it. What is your reason to be here, Lord Varys? What’s your destiny?”

“To advise you, Your Grace,” Varys nodded, “To find the one who will rule for the people, and I found you. My destiny is to advocate on the people’s behalf, as you say, to a ruler who cares to listen.”

“As I said,” Tyrion injected himself once more into the argument, “The people of the city are not our immediate concern.”

Both Daenerys and Varys’ gaze fell on him, the same expression sitting on their faces: confusion and sheer annoyance.”

“The dead are after us,” he explained, hoping he sounded reconciliatory enough to end this misery of a council, if only to win some more time until he figured out a way. “We’ve been told so many times that only Jon can end this war, by defeating the Night King. We should concern ourselves with that. Save the innocent people of Kings Landing of a certain death, then we can figure how to save them from our war on Cersei.”

*****

This was the worst council meeting he’s ever attended, and the statement took into consideration council meetings with more Lannisters in attendance; Tywin, Cersei, even Joffrey. It wasn’t that the Queen argued for immediate vengeance – that was her way, it could only be expected, though if Tyrion admitted to himself, he should’ve seen it coming and he didn’t. Perhaps he was also flying high on the wings of hope.

No, the problem with this council was something completely different; how it left him. An attack on Kings Landing was not immediate – first they had to reach the city, preferably still alive, and hopefully without any further battle with the dead, because without Jon, Tyrion could see clearly how that would go. There was no commander to hold the armies together, they camped next to each other and they marched after each other, but not once did they have a council or similar interaction with each other – they didn’t even decide who would lead the army in the case of an attack, they didn’t even try to come to a conclusion, to prepare for that eventuality.

Tyrion knew he was right – once they all left the tent, Tyrion turned back, and told Daenerys the same. It was always easier to speak to her one to one, she would be more willing to hear her out. Tyrion explained, while they march south, it would be prudent to wait with any decisions – use the time of the march to find out hopefully more about the circumstances of Jon’s disappearance, and make a decision once they reached the city.

That they won’t stop the night marches until they reach the city was obvious – between the Gods Eye and the city there was no suitable patch of land on which to fight a battle, especially not with the battleplan Jon seemed to favour. The only thing that was certain was that it was still the right plan, the least amount of losses on their side while the most damage to the encircled dead.

But armies cannot hide on plain fields and cannot encircle an army in the woodlands. In truth, the road to Kings Landing was worrisome, the sooner they leave the wooded areas behind the better. No, their best chance to fight this battle was under Kings Landing, as Tyrion could see it, where the city walls would halt any army, easy to encircle. He could only hope the statement was also true to the army of the dead. It’s not like he’s fought them, or knew anything about them, really.

Dany agreed, as Tyrion expected she would, because there was absolutely nothing to lose by waiting. She would’ve had to wait anyway, because she needed to reach Kings Landing for the attack. And Tyrion would’ve said this much during the council, if Varys wasn’t so adamant to go straight against the Queen headfirst. It was so unlike Varys, Tyrion thought. He must’ve known better than confronting Daenerys so awfully plainly. When ever did the Queen listen to direct confrontation? Never.

Which is why this council was the worst he’s ever taken part in. Because when it ended, and Varys walked past Tyrion, he could swear, to his shock, that the Spider was smiling one of those rare smiles, barely visible, but Tyrion knew when it was there.

No, Varys wasn’t merely watching. Varys was up to something, and that something involved preventing Daenerys attacking Kings Landing. But if so, then why so direct… Oh, you fool, Tyrion told himself. You cannot see the woodland from a single tree. What do you do when you want to make certain that someone does exactly what you want them to do? You attempt to force them not to do it – and nine out of ten people will grow stubborn and do it, even more so Queens and Kings, sensitive about their authority, and even more so about being educated so openly. No, Varys wanted the Queen to attack Kings Landing, Tyrion concluded, but the why didn’t want to make itself known to him. For a man who for so long always claimed to serve those tens of thousands of innocent people he so vehemently tried to protect today, what reason could there be to risk their lives? Tyrion couldn’t come up with any.

As he sat behind the tree, hidden, to finally have some time for himself, he’s heard his name called out. No, not yet, he concluded. It may be the last time he has for himself in this life, he may as well spend some of it enjoying this solitude, before they all get crushed on the walls of Kings Landing or become blue-eyed corpses in the army of the dead. He didn’t turn, he didn’t stand to reveal himself.

And because he didn’t, he didn’t catch sight of the raven that took to the skies from the camp, just behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am wondering if people lost interest (for the second time in a week) - no comments on the last chapter? So if you're reading, please give a shout out so I know. What's the point of sharing if no one reads :)


	64. The Crownlands II.

It’s been two days. Since the battle, there’s been no encounter of a single living, breathing being – neither human, nor animal. Not even an insect, Jon thought bitterly. He was hungry – Ghost was hungry. Besides him, two dozen of direwolves grew restless and hungry just as well. Yet they still followed, the bond was strong. The pack survives, Jon reminded himself bitterly. They feasted on torn limb, a few of his pack returned to the battlefield, bringing forth the gruesome bodypart the past day. But not today. They were too far now. They reached the shoreline.

During the journey that took them there, following the black caped and hooded men whom carried his human body to here, Jon’s had a lot of time to think about it, to study it, how his pack – and Ghost’s pack – survived. Ned Stark used to say; the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. The pack that Jon left behind, slowly, gradually, as he turned toward his Targaryen heritage in the midst of this war, in order to connect with a dragon, not a wolf – or perhaps with two dragons, for he separated himself from the Starks in order to form a closer bond with Daenerys, he knew. He also knew why, albeit he used to tell himself that it was what he vowed to do, the promise he made at Winterfell inevitably included that he’ll become a Targaryen including all that it meant. This wasn’t his true reason; he knew that now.

In truth he knew it a while ago, perhaps even before they left for Dragonstone. He remembered how he sat on a stone watching the Kingsroad and only Dany came to him, following his rage that caused him to behead Harry Strickland, something that he could only attribute to his own dragonblood. Now he knew at least what the sudden urges of anger were that he felt more and more as time progressed, for it wasn’t something that he could associate with the Starks, and Ned Stark in particular.

It wasn’t an accident that he sought Daenerys’ company, that he allowed himself to be led to her chamber, that he gladly took the opportunity to take that further that one night. No, he has become the Targaryen he was, and Targaryens, well, they preferred each other’s company. Jon much preferred Dany’s company lately. He couldn’t put a name to it, why, but she astonished him, in more ways than one – in not just the way she loved him that night. She was strong. She seemed to have courage that Jon never saw before, no matter the odds she pushed on. No matter her losses, the sacrifices, the price she’s paid for each victory, they only served to further feed her determination. Jon admired that, just as much as he admired those large violet eyes and the silky silver hair braided so intricately atop her head into a crown, her petite figure that masked the enormous personality crammed into the small woman that she was. She fascinated him, her persona paired with his eagerness to find out who he was, to find a way to connect with his blood and his true heritage resulted in a lethal mixture of admiration and will to – what? To change her.

To show her the way, as Jon knew it. She was so determined that it bordered narrow sighted single-mindedness, with only one goal: The Iron Throne. True, Dany fought with Jon, listened and followed every command, despite her being the Queen and he being a nobody really when compared. Yet Jon knew, it was only time, Dany viewed as this war and defeating the Night King a mere necessity to get what she truly wanted. There’d be no point in sitting on the Iron Throne protected by the walls of Kings Landing and the Red Keep when the dead turn all the living until they reach her, and there’d be even less point doing so without allies, without proving to the people of Westeros that she was true to her word, she would fight for them. There was politics in it, as much as there was the yearning for her to connect with her family.

That Dany viewed him as family, was without a doubt to Jon. And she was a Targaryen – the connection by blood kept drawing her to be near him the same way that it drew him to her. They were inevitable, Jon knew now. Whether it was love, he couldn’t tell at all. Blood seemed to be much more powerful than love, or any of his confused feelings. She never gave him the feeling of arrival at somewhere he’s yearned to be, he never felt safe in her presence. No, those feelings came only when he had his pack around. He used to feel belonging even when he conversed with whatever Bran has become, before he died, and he used to feel the same care, worry and unbreakable bond whenever he laid eyes on Arya, no matter what they were bickering about – because they always bickered about something. Jon regretted that. But what he’s regretted the most was leaving Sansa behind. Sansa was everything Jon associated with home. It wasn’t Winterfell, and it wasn’t the fact that he’s been finally accepted as a Stark, perhaps because when he finally was granted the relief of that acceptance, he already knew that he was not a Stark. It was Sansa, Jon knew it long before the dogs tore Ramsay Bolton to pieces at her command and they finally stopped sleeping in tents, before they reclaimed Winterfell. He learned it during their travels together, their talks that no one else was privy to, and their silent nights listening to each other’s breathing, for neither of them could sleep. Everything that he’s done after, all those times he left her behind, he always felt the longing to return home. But lately, since he finally said it out loud who he really was, the feeling was pressed aside, to give way to more complex emotions, yearnings that stemmed from much deeper in his core. The need to realise who he really was outweighed the need to be home, and he’s left Sansa behind. The wolf left the pack, he thought bitterly. Sansa, like the matriarch she was growing to become, tried to nurture him, and tried to give him space, and he eagerly took advantage. And now, trapped after being saved by nothing but his Stark blood, the ability to warg that he’s inherited from his maternal ancestors as well as the companionship of the direwolf he’s raised when he still believed himself to be a bastard of Stark, have saved him from whatever fate these black caped men intended for him.

Except, his body was dying. It turned paler by each day; the men already began to worry that he’ll die of whatever ointment they used on the dagger that they cut him with. Their leader vehemently denied that it was possible, but the black capes grumbled, often, and hence Jon learned a great deal about them.

They kept talking about how the Mad Queen wanted him alive. Thus Jon learned that they were indeed acting on the orders of Cersei Lannister. It infuriated Jon – as of now, both her brothers were fighting Jon’s war as he saw it, and yet, she would rather betray them both than to accept that Jon’s war was actually more concerning than her arse warming that damned chair of swords. She knew who Jon truly was, of course she’s learned it from those damned letters that the traitor kept sending around. The letters however never mentioned that Jon has resigned his birthright – no, as Jon figured, in Cersei’s eyes, the letters elevated him to the top position on her list of enemies. He was the heir, in her eyes, he was the greatest threat.

Jon wondered a lot about why she would want him alive – he came up with all kinds of gruesome tortures. Griff’s spymaster said that the Mad Queen has kept a Dornish woman in the Black cells. Jon recalled the first time on Dragonstone, the day he showed Dany the carvings he’s found in the mines. Tyrion Lannister and Varys the Spider brought her the news just as they were leaving the cave, that her fleet has been defeated at sea. The fleet carried the Dornish Snakes, as they were called, led by Yara Greyjoy they ferried the Dornish because they intended to call their banners and march on Kings Landing in Dany’s name. And now, Cersei kept one of them Dornish women in the black cells under the Red Keep – most likely their leader, the bastard-lover of the prince that fought once for Tyrion. The Red Viper he was called. Tyrion told him that his skull got smashed into pieces in a smudge of brains.

That was a long time ago, and Cersei still kept the woman. The Mad Queen was true to her name just by this single act in Jon’s eyes, she was truly full of the urge for vengeance. Jon wondered if a similar fate awaited his body in Kings Landing.

At the same time, he knew that Cersei would likely know better. It was simple, really – Cersei wanted the Iron Throne, and had no right to it whatsoever. Jon had the strongest claim, had the name, and the freedom. If there was anything Jon has learned from these wars, it was the drive that pushed forward anyone of noble blood. Jaime Lannister was described to him as a product of his father, the legendary Tywin who schemed to orchestrate the Red Wedding with a single purpose, to defeat the enemies of his family and further his legacy. Daenerys’ greatest fault as she herself saw it was her inability to bear children, thus being incapable of furthering her own name and legacy. The thought that kept creeping in, the fact that whatever he’s done or would’ve wanted with Daenerys thus became completely futile was kicked out of his chain of thoughts – it didn’t matter at the moment. Jon could see it clearly, for someone to hold on to the power they all craved, for whatever reason – whether it was to do good, to defeat the dead, or simply for power’s sake – it was nothing if one couldn’t secure their legacy. Simply, if you had no means to ensure that there were those who’ll follow after you, furthering your name and protecting what you’ve worked for, you became dispensable. Why would anyone support you in the long term, if you couldn’t provide security to those that followed them, through ensuring that you’ve had a way of securing the future of your own?

Jon was the future of House Targaryen. There would’ve been times when this weighed him down, but he didn’t ponder much on those implications – he had this war to thank for his lack of ability to brood over the fact that he’s had to marry, he’s had to sire children, his life was no longer in his own control, the decision was pre-made for him. And the future of House Targaryen included one specificity that made it singular: the claim on the Iron Throne.

Sometimes he viewed Dany’s attempts to ‘own him’ as she’d said – “either all of you is mine, or none of you is mine” – as attempts to secure what he represented, the claim and the future. But Dany said, she was barren, so Jon could’ve never secured that future with her. He really couldn’t see through Dany’s reasons and thought process about it, why she still pursued it with him.

But he also represented the same prospects to anyone else. Was it Sansa who vied for his affections, he’d consider her wanting to be the mother of the future kings and queens of Westeros. Reed spoke about it more than enough times to drill into Jon’s mind: the ‘prized breeding horse’ that he was, for any house with a suitably aged maid still unwed, they would demand the same match with him, for the same reason. He could now see only one reason for Cersei to be wanting him delivered alive to Kings Landing: To secure the same future. Cersei, unwed, not of Jon’s age of course but as much as Jon recalled her slender statute and long golden hair, every bit the beautiful Queen she was, has lost all three of her children – bastards sired by her brother Jaime, now Jon knew.

She had no way forward to secure the future, unless she began to breed again. There was talk about her pregnant with yet another bastard of Jaime’s. But Jon knew well, that meant nothing – she was unwed for too long a time for the child to be accepted for anything else but a bastard. No, Cersei saw the opportunity that Reed warned them about, that everyone was expected to see once the wars have been won, and Jon was certain of the fate that awaited him in Kings Landing.

He was to be made even more certain soon enough, as the men reached a camp, and thus Jon’s long walk with no one but his own thoughts to converse with, have come to an end. Once more he tried to awake the body, to reach the mind – he’s tried this so many times, whenever they stopped, that by now the futility of it didn’t even phase him. The body remained closed off, he couldn’t return to it.

There was something else about his little discoveries, as he called his revelations to himself – If Cersei wanted him alive, he’d awake soon enough from whatever poison they used on him. Of course, Jon knew that he was needed to return to his body for it to awake, but the men grew so worried about his lack of awakening, that by now he was certain, his death was never in the plans, not even an option considered. That gave him hope that at one point, he’ll be able to reach his own mind and return to it. The poison had to wear off sooner or later, for Jon firmly believed that it was the poison that locked him out.

They reached their destination; Jon knew from seeing the black caped men who stood swiftly from the fire they sat surrounding and greeted them.

“Are you out of your mind?!” the leader rushed past them, putting out the fire by kicking snow onto it. “Are you wishing to die so badly?”

“It’s cold, Myles,” one said. “We’re here are we not? We made it.”

“I see you are here, Lothston,” the leader – Myles, Jon learned – spoke coldly. “I don’t see the ladies you were supposed to deliver to this fine gathering.”

Jon immediately felt his heart – Ghost’s heart, he reminded himself, as he always did – begin to pump heavily in his throat. He was right in thinking that his abduction and the attack on Daenerys were connected.

“Rolly went to get the Stark bitch,” the man named Lothston began his tale, “With five of mine. He said he’ll prove himself, you vouched for the boy – now here’s how he’s proven himself. No doubt he’s running south along with those armies.”

“And the Dragon Queen?” Myles asked.

“Wolves,” Lothson whispered, “I’ve never seen like it. A big white one tore Watkyn’s throat open right in front of me, and the fucking wolves were protecting her. We couldn’t get her, there was only three of us and at least twenty of them fucking wolves.”

The leader kicked in the snow, as he murmured some elaborate curse, and Jon began to piece together what he’s heard. There were more black capes, three groups, and plan to snatch away in synchronised attack Sansa, Daenerys and him. He’s prevented the attack on Dany, Ghost and the wolves killed three – now seeing the three that they found here, there were six of them to carry out that attack, led by the man named Lothston. One of them killed was named Watkyn, Jon had to remember it. Albeit he was almost certain of who they were, he wanted to make sure to recount the names once he had the means to confirm his suspicions. Once he’s back in his own body, preferably while it still lived.

Someone named Rolly was supposed to get Sansa with five. Jon knew there was no attack. He would’ve sensed it, he told himself, he would’ve known through Ghost. But he’s sent Ghost and the wolves to guard Sansa, as he always did, to guard them all. Perhaps the one named Rolly grew scared of the wolves’ sight, and those men indeed ran. Perhaps he only didn’t know of an attack because Ghost dealt with it easily, and it wasn’t of importance to the wolf to even ponder about. Perhaps Rolly and his comrades were now marching following the Night King’s orders instead of Myles.

“I see you have the dragonboy,” Lothston remarked then.

“Someone had to do their job, Lothston,” Myles hissed. “We got little dragonrider on the island, as we expected. This little piece of shit was about to fight some dead men from what I could tell, but we got to him first. That’s when the battle turned.”

“You have to admit, Thoyne,” another man spoke, “These dead fuckers… You have to admit that dragonboy is right in wanting to stop them. The Mad Queen may be behind high walls, but what if these dead men reached her. How will she pay us if she’s dead?”

Thoyne. Myles Thoyne. Thank you, Jon thought with an inner grin.

“It doesn’t matter,” their leader thus identified as Myles Thoyne turned back toward them and draw a sword. “Look what I took from this dragonfucker!”

Jon grew even angrier, if that was possible at all, as the man raised high Blackfyre.

“The company follows the man who wields the sword,” He declared, “And the Mad Queen will pay, though you didn’t deliver the Stark bitch. She really wanted the Stark bitch. But this… this will deliver her the Golden Company.”

“Not as long as Griff leads the company,” the man countered.

“Fuck Griff,” Thoyne declared, “Griff is an aging lovestruck fool, who thinks pretty boy here is his own father. And Griff would like some of this prettiness for himself, I am sure of it. As I see it, he is old, he’s not fought from the frontline since longer than I can remember. He’s an easy kill, if it comes to that.”

“Our word is as good as gold,” Lothston remarked, “It’s time we prove it, I say. Take dragonboy to the Queen, take the sword and turn the Company to honour our word. Kill the dead fuckers.”

“Who cares about the dead fuckers,” Thoyne countered, “Your such an honourable fool, Jon. Dragonboy’s armies will deal with the dead, even without the Company. He’s instilled in them his fixation to destroy the dead, they’ll carry it out. We’ll have other orders.”

Jon Lothston. This is proving better and better; Jon has learned more in this single conversation than during the past three days combined.

“So, what’s next, in your plan, Myles,” the man who spoke about the dead asked.

“We’ll only have to deal with men,” Myles responded with considerable confidence. “I for one cannot wait to coat Blackfyre in the blood of the Kingslayer.”

“You don’t have Blackfyre yet,” Lothston argued. “There will have to be an election. That’s how it’s done, Myles.”

“As I see it,” Myles Thoyne scoffed as he sat down on a stone, sheathing Blackfyre once more, “I do have Blackfyre. It’s by my side, and I will turn the Company with it. Any of you fuckers having other thoughts will just have to convince me. I advise against trying.”

None of them spoke after, only disgruntled looks to each other gave away to Jon that they weren’t happy. Jon wasn’t happy either.

What a fool he’s proven to be. All this time, ever since Reed told him, “We are dealing with the matter of two missing captains,” Jon dismissed the problem within the Golden Company as an insignificance of a few deserters who weren’t willing to turn against what they saw as their ‘word’. After all they weren’t called Golden Company for the cloth of gold they made tents of, or the bracelets they wore – one bangle for each year in service. It wasn’t after their armour either, it was as Jon Lothston remarked – their word as good as gold. Jaime Lannister thus have been proven right to point out: the company never broke a contract before. Jon should’ve known that this was no mere insignificance, missing captains – likely Myles Thoyne, perhaps Jon Lothston, as he could put it together now – not deserting, but returning to Cersei, vowing to return her army to her.

Perhaps he was merely a gift to sweeten the deal – deliver Cersei the one she believed to be the greatest threat to her rule, as a form of penance for the troubles she experienced with her army turning from her, defying her orders and joining a completely different war than she hired them for.

Jon should’ve seen this for the issue that is was, he knew. When Griff rode into camp to tell him, because, “this could not wait,” that their spymaster was murdered, Jon should’ve known it wasn’t mere desertion. Griff was right, the spymaster found out something he shouldn’t have – he found out most likely what Thoyne and Lothston were up to. Though, it was clear that Thoyne was their leader, the instigator behind it all.

The black capes, as he now called them, settled as they always did, curling up against each other, tightly covering themselves in their capes. At one point Lothston checked on his body, horrified at the lifelessness of it, but Thoyne dismissed it, exactly with what Jon thought, with the poison having its effect. He’s said Jon will wake once the poison wears off, thus confirming Jon’s theory about the state of his body.

There was nothing to it but to wait. As they settled, they shushed about their next steps, and Jon began to formulate his own plans. And as they fell asleep, he went to check on his body, as he always did, nudging away the fabric from his face with Ghost’s nose, feeling the cold skin. It wasn’t good at all. He didn’t have much time to save his body, if he wanted to ever return to it. He had to figure how to return to it and save it, before it died.

*****

“We had to gather,” Tyrion began, “Because we cannot continue isolating ourselves from each other. Jon would not want it, was he here leading us he would hold this alliance together just by his presence, and once he returns, none of us would want to be the source of disappointment. I know that every one of you believe in Jon. So, let’s work together, for Jon, if nothing else.”

He was surprised at his own inspired little speech, and judging by their faces, they were just as surprised, perhaps even inspired as he felt. He studied their faces one by one – Arya and Sansa Stark – Queen Sansa. They sat with Lord Reed, and Ser Brienne of Tarth – thanks to Jaime, a long overdue knighting that Tyrion learned had occurred before the battle at Winterfell. Dany’s posse; Grey Worm and Missandei – the loss of Ser Jorah Mormont began to sink in, to be felt. For all Tyrion knew, the old knight would be his greatest ally today, yes, Tyrion missed Ser Jorah. Dany sat at the end of the long table. And far in the back, a little triumvirate – Jon Connington, Jaime Lannister, and between them sat a barely alive Lord Edric Snow. They didn’t even hide their little alliance, Tyrion thought. That’ll prove itself foolish. Finally, here was Varys. Varys, who Tyrion couldn’t find in him to call his friend anymore. Regardless of what his intentions and plans could have been, for Tyrion still could figure nothing about the motivations that moved Varys these days, the very knowledge that he was playing at something made Tyrion weary even of being in the presence of the Spider. No, once Varys was his only friend, the one saving his life – but not anymore.

He nodded toward Edric.

“I cannot report much,” Edric began in a frail, thin voice, his eyes restless, not dissimilarly to how Tyrion saw them while he was still unconscious. “Men, in black hooded capes, I could not see faces. Jon called out for me so I hurried as I could to look for him. He wouldn’t call on me unless he needed aid, I thought. He was yelling, ‘there are others here,’ so I ran, and I really thought the ‘Others’ implied more walkers, not living men. Then an arrow hit me just as I saw him fall on his knees in front of them. From then on, I cannot tell much. The world was spinning, and I blacked out, and I am certain you don’t want to hear the kind of nightmares I’ve been having while I was out.”

“You all suspect they were Cersei’s men,” Jaime spoke, his voice firm, his face emotionless, “I tell you; I believe they were hers. Only she would order such a daring and despicable deed as abducting Jon in the midst of the battle, exactly to prevent our victory. Now we are still running from the dead instead of marching on her capitol as she calls it. She’s achieved her goal.”

“And I believe she also has Jon now,” Lord Reed spoke, “Let us not forget what Jon represents. He’s the heir to the Iron Throne, proclaimed in these… letters that are sent around.” He firmly watched Daenerys’ face as he spoke.

“Which is why I say, we should move to attack Kings Landing,” Dany declared.

“What about the dead?” Sansa asked immediately.

“The Queen is right,” Arya stood, “My sister, I mean. Jon would want us to fight the dead. Lord Tyrion speaks of not disappointing Jon, he’d not want us to turn from our duty of defeating the dead.”

Tyrion had to smile, as he watched Sansa also nodding to Arya with a smile. The little sister indeed behaved like a proper counsellor to her Queen should, for once, and she spoke just as truly.

“That’s a bit of a conundrum, isn’t it,” Varys spoke. “If I remember correctly, Jon was said to be this… Prince promised, the one who can kill the Night King, and no one else. Yet, if our suspicions are correct, he is by now likely in the black cells under the Red Keep. And thus, there seems to be no way to defeat the dead without retrieving Jon, alive of course.”

Dany sighed deeply. “Which is why I mean to attack at once.”

“I must agree with Queen Daenerys,” Jaime spoke again. “Cersei has not only prevented our victory, she’s ensured that we’ll bring this war to her, by capturing Jon. The two fronts thus become one and the same.”

“How many are in the army of the dead now,” Griff asked, “Do we even know?”

“I scouted,” Reed answered calmly, “The woodlands allow little for me to see, I’ve not caught sight of them. Tormund is out with a party to find a trace of them, we ought to learn where they are before the mount a surprise attack on our camps, else we stand little chance, regardless of our numbers.”

“Perhaps the dragons could also scout,” Edric asked, “If I recall, it was Queen Daenerys who’s first scouting gave us the advantage at the Wall.”

“It gave you my alliance,” Daenerys nodded, “I’ve seen Hardhome. But…” She shuffled on her chair, glancing down at her hands she rested on the table. “I only have one dragon, Lord Edric. I cannot recall Rhaegal, I don’t know where he went after Jon… I believe he is looking for Jon. The bond between dragon and rider is strong, Rhaegal won’t abandon Jon. He doesn’t answer to me, for the first time, I cannot recall him. And I cannot risk my one remaining dragon in scouting missions. I have need for Drogon if I mean to attack Kings Landing.”

They all fell silent at this admission. Tyrion wondered whether it was the admission that Dany truly lost a dragon to Jon, or the confirmation that she meant to burn all, or part of Kings Landing, she meant to unleash dragonfire on the city, that caused them to reflect on her words so intently.

“There’s no defeating the dead without defeating Cersei, she won’t just hand Jon over to us because we explain,” Varys remarked all of a sudden, to Tyrion’s complete surprise. The Spider became more and more mysterious to him with every word he spoke, it seemed.

“We all agree on this,” he added, nodding toward Varys, trying his best to mask his own thoughts about Varys’ words. “But an outright attack on the city may not be the way.”

“How did I say it, Lord Tyrion?” Dany asked annoyed, “When we discussed this, I said, I mean to rip her out, root and stem. I intend to do just that.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Tyrion began, carefully measuring his voice, “But tell me, who do you think the first casualty would be of such an attack?”

“Jon,” Sansa whispered instead.

“Yes, Jon,” Tyrion nodded, “and if Jon is dead, we all can consider ourselves dead. I advise to do exactly what Lord Varys said here, provide an explanation and seek Jon’s release. I advise to seek a parley.”

“And what would you parley for, Lord Tyrion?” Edric asked, “We have nothing to offer your sister in return, Jon is the very thing she can benefit from the most, he is the heir.”

“That is not true,” Daenerys remarked.

“Forgive me, Queen Daenerys,” Edric argued, “He may have resigned his birthright, but it is his birthright. He is the heir, no one can deny it, not even you, his own heir whom he advocates.”

“That is not what I meant,” Daenerys hissed, causing Tyrion to wonder if she’ll break out in one of those angry tantrums she allowed herself lately during arguments. “We have plenty to offer for Jon’s return.”

Tyrion didn’t understand. Judging by the faces as he looked around, no one did.

“I am sorry, Lord Tyrion,” His Queen spoke, softly, and for a moment he felt as a sacrificial lamb must be feeling at the sight of the knife. But no, he wasn’t the sacrifice.

“Grey Worm,” Daenerys turned toward the commander, who slammed his lance into the ground. Two dozen unsullied lined the tent all of a sudden, causing all the Starks to jump from their seat. For a moment it seemed like all of them became intended sacrifices, any price in return for Jon. Tyrion wondered if Dany’s gone mad for love.

“You can’t,” he hissed.

“It’s not what you think,” Dany said calmly, before he turned to Grey Worm and nodded. Two unsullied grabbed Jaime Lannister from where he stood.

“You can’t!” Tyrion shouted out. No one else spoke – they were simply stunned. Finally, Sansa spoke.

“Ser Jaime is an ally of Jon’s,” she said, once more standing straight as she took a step forward to face Daenerys, still sitting in her chair.

“Is he really,” Daenerys asked. “Someone has betrayed Jon and us all; and let us talk truth now. The letters were never sent by anyone of the North, it’s been proven. I apologise for suspecting you, Your Grace.” She nodded toward Sansa, as she spoke.

“There’s only one person who were there at every council, had the means, and yet was never investigated while Jon and I suspected each other’s company,” Daenerys explained, “And that is Jaime Lannister. The man who shared his sister’s bed all these years. Whose child is growing in Cersei’s belly. I don’t believe he’s turned his back on her, on his unborn child, not for a moment. Take him.”

“I beg you to reconsider…” Tyrion spoke, hoping his voice to be less fearful than he felt.

“I’ve considered long enough,” She said as she stood, giving emphasis to her words. “I considered your advice, my Lord Hand, to learn as much as I could before a decision is made. I considered Jon’s chances before you’ve pointed out here, and I agree, a parley is our best option. I also agree, that we have to offer a prize worthy of consideration and there are only three people in this tent who could be considered worthy.”

“I am certain that the North would not take lightly to me offering up their Queen as sacrifice for a Targaryen,” she turned to Sansa as she explained, “And while I have little care, Jon does care. I cannot trade the Queen in the North for his freedom. I also cannot offer you, my Lord Hand,” her gaze turned back toward Tyrion, “For I have need of you, in order to depose your sweet sister as you like to refer to her. No, the only person I have no need of is a traitor, a Lannister. It’s not like our army would feel the loss of the Lions either, how many are there? Three thousand, four perhaps?”

“Ser Jaime is loyal,” Jon Connington stood to speak, “He’s here, is he not? What do you think Cersei makes of that?! Your Grace.”

“That depends,” Daenerys argued, her eyes speaking clearly of her displeasure in her decision questioned so lengthily and intensely. “There is a traitor in our midst. I find that it is Ser Jaime Lannister.”

At that, Lord Reed and Lord Edric both began to protest. Tyrion stood silently – he knew it’s futile. At this point, there’s nothing that could convince the Queen otherwise, the more they confronted her, the more convinced she’ll become – just like when Varys pressed her and criticised her of making a mistake, reminded her of her father… He stood and watched in disbelief still of the trap that was surely laid ahead by his Queen as soon as he called for this council.

“When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story,” Daenerys began to speak as she sat back in her chair, causing all of them to silence themselves. “About the man who murdered our father, who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.”

The tension in the air could’ve been cut with a butterknife, as they all listened intently. So this was it, Tyrion thought, all along. Daenerys never trusted Jaime, she’s merely went along with Jon’s trust, and once Jon is gone, there’s nothing to remind her not to hold on to ages old scorns and deeds. Indeed, a lifelong conviction could run that deep.

“He told me other stories as well,” She continued, “About all the things we would do to that man, once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp. Your sister pledged to send her army North, and you’ve joined us, with a faction of her armies.”

“I did,” Jaime remarked.

“And once she lied to me, she hired the Golden Company to attack me, attack us, while we fought the dead. She sent Euron Greyjoy to attack Dragonstone and murder our refugees.”

“She did,” Jaime repeated, “She lied to me as well.”

Tyrion turned toward Jaime in shock.

“She never had any intention to send her army north,” Jaime explained, “She sent me to my death. She had the Iron Fleet, she had the twenty thousand fresh troops of the Golden Company, and she’s never told me. I came to realise, Your Grace, that even if we defeated the dead, she would’ve had more than enough to destroy the survivors.”

“We?” Daenerys hissed.

“I promised to fight for the living,” Jaime scorned, “And ever since, I kept that promise. I fought at the Wall, at Winterfell, I sat beside you awaiting the battle with the Golden Company! I fought at the Gods Eye; I have proven my loyalty to Jon more than once.”

“Your Grace, I know my brother,” Tyrion interrupted, in part to avoid Jaime angering Daenerys even further, but also due to the realisation that this was no longer a council argument about who’ll the hostage will be to trade for Jon’s life. No, this began to feel more and more like a trial of Jaime Lannister.

“Like you knew your sister?” Daenerys turned to him, interrupting him, and he silenced himself.

“He’s with us, fought with Jon in just about every battle our armies fought against the dead. He could've left when Jon revealed his true parentage, he truly should’ve, yet he remained. Why would he do that, if not out of conviction that Jon’s cause was just, that OUR cause was just?”

“Perhaps to continue sending little messages detailing our movements, trying to tear us apart,” Dany explained with fury in her eyes, “and trust his little brother to defend him right up to the moment he slits my throat.”

To the side, the Starks shushed with Lord Reed.

“Tyrion speaks right,” Sansa said frailly, “And you speak right, Your Grace.”

Sansa Stark, the mediator between Lannisters and Targaryens? Tyrion took a step back, as Sansa continued.

“He attacked my father on the streets of Kings Landing, he tried to destroy my family the same as he did yours.”

“You want me to apologise?! I won’t.” Jaime shouted, and Tyrion raised his hand trying to shush him to silence. Yet Ser Jaime, disappointed, desperate, continued, “We were at war! The things I did, I did for MY house and MY family. I’d do it again.”

“The things we do for love,” Sansa said, turning to Jaime, stunning him to silence, “That’s what you told Bran when you pushed him out the window of the broken tower at Winterfell, did you not? The things we do for love.”

Yet she turned back toward Daenerys. “Jon once told me, before you arrived in our camp after Greywater Watch,” she spoke calmly, “He’s told me that the world is what it is because men are viewed through the deeds of their forefathers, that he’s now defined by the deeds of Targaryens, just as Ser Jaime by the deeds of his father, the sack of Kings Landing, the Red Wedding…”

“Jon’s counselled me to see a man for their own deeds, your grace, to see when a man acts true, you must view them through their own actions. Ser Jaime stayed with us and fought with us, in effect turned against his own sister facing the Golden Company, for us.”

Tyrion sighed of relief.

“Whatever he’s done to your family and mine, he’s not the man anymore. Furthermore, having turned against Cersei, you’ll only deliver Cersei a prize she craves out of vengeance. You’ll in effect kill Ser Jaime, or worse.”

Daenerys smirked as Sansa finished, by now ushered by both Reed and Arya not to speak any further.

“He’s just said he’d do it all again,” Daenerys remarked, “And the Queen in the North would hand him the chance on silver platter with her blessing. How alliances fall and form. And I thought you hoped for a more amicable relation.”

Sansa seemed somewhat startled at that, the accusation that she’d ever side with Cersei Lannister causing her eyes to spark in anger.

“You speak of loyalty,” Daenerys turned toward Ser Jaime, “I find your loyalty is quite fickle, indeed, as proven by the count of your past deeds. So why would I believe that you abandoned your house and family now?”

“Because this war,” Jaime sighed, “this goes beyond loyalty, houses and crowns. This is about survival.”

They all silenced at that. It was so very true, they all knew. What if Cersei sat on the Iron Throne? Jon was right all along, if they didn’t defeat the dead, it really didn’t matter. All their past deeds against one another, and the deeds of their fathers and grandfathers – none of that mattered now.

“You don’t know me well, Your Grace,” Ser Brienne stepped forth. “But I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honour. I was his captor once, and when we were both taken prisoner and the men who held us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it.”

“Without him, my Queen would not be alive,” she glanced back at a nodding Sansa as she spoke, “He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find the Stark sisters and bring them home, because he swore an oath to their mother.”

“And you vouch for him,” Daenerys remarked, raising an eyebrow.

“I do.”

Once more the silence that settled weighed heavy on Tyrion’s shoulders, as he watched Daenerys deep in concentration.

“Very well,” she said at last, “You all vouch for Ser Jaime. Yet you all agree we need Jon. And you all understand that we will not get Jon back by asking.”

They all waited just as intently as Tyrion, for he knew, something was forthcoming. He found he didn’t like it the least bit, watching as she turned once more to the Northerners.

“It is your decision,” she declared then, “You want Jon back, don’t you? So how will we get Jon back? By trading. If we don’t trade Jaime Lannister, I suggest you say goodbye to your Queen for I see no one else suitable. It is your choice.”

As to emphasize her words, she nodded toward Grey Worm, and two unsullied stepped in front of Sansa, just as Arya stepped between them.

Touché. Tyrion swallowed hard, and waited, for what he wasn’t certain. For the end of it. There was only one end of it, he knew now, and honestly, he knew all along.

“I thought so,” Daenerys said at last, waiving her hand and the unsullied backed off. Sansa sighed of relief, understandably, but her eyes settled on Ser Jaime. In fact, all their eyes did

“So it’s a lover for a lover,” Varys remarked, and Tyrion’s eyes fell once more on the Spider. He seemed… content. Tyrion wanted to puke.

“Precisely,” Daenerys waved her hand once more, and Ser Jaime was finally led out of the tent. Shaking the hands off his one arm, he walked out head held high, with as much dignity as the situation could allow him.

“Lord Tyrion,” Her Queen’s stern voice dragged his attention back, “See to it that a parley is arranged for when we arrive at Kings Landing.” She moved to leave, but stopped just right besides Tyrion, now stunned to standing motionless like a stone.

“He is the father of her child,” she said lowly, “She will not harm him.”

“You still don’t know my sister,” Tyrion whispered, as she walked past and left the tent.

*****

He was hungry, so very hungry. The men were asleep, surrounded by his pack. Ghost had to find food; Jon had to make sure that there’s only one half-dead body he’s to deal with – he had to nourish this one.

He’s been wandering for a while, with only a few of his pack following, loosely behind him, perhaps even wandering on their own. They were scouring desperately for something edible. The more land they covered, the best chance that they find something, some kind of fallen animal, even a human bodypart began to sound appetising, from the perspective of a wolf – Jon didn’t mind, after all, Ghost was a direwolf. It was his blood. It’s not like Jon didn’t relish the last time they attacked a man, the taste of blood so vivid on their tongue still, as they ripped open the throat of the man who attacked Daenerys. Perhaps his name was Watkyn. The knowledge didn’t faze Jon in the least.

He took to the road – perhaps by habit, but it was easier to see clearly ahead. He wouldn’t want to encounter any dead, albeit, there was one great advantage to being a wolf: He could smell rotten flesh from miles ahead.

Which is why he took to the road – to reach the destination of the smell. To see. At this point, he wouldn’t mind finding a dead man risen either, and if it’s fresh enough, Ghost would eat, and he would have one less to kill once he returned to his human body.

He soon reached a clearing, and what he saw wasn’t at all what he expected to see. There were no dead men walking here. No, they were dangling, hung atop a tree – not dissimilarly to those four once dangling from the hanging post in Castle Black. They were kicking about, yet they couldn’t free themselves, and so they kept dangling and kicking as Jon watched them from afar.

They were too high, as if someone decided to tease him. He could try and jump, get at one – but he didn’t have dragonglass or Valyrian steel to silence it, and in any case, there were three of them. One would shriek. Then the rest of the dead would arrive soon enough, and he’d be killed for good. No, he won’t do anything about them.

Yet he watched for something about them sparked his curiosity. Around their necks hung plaques. And on the plaques, the same word, all three of them had it.

A name. Frey.

Ghost tilted his head, as Jon was trying to make sense of what he saw. Surely the dead cared little about Frey. The only ones who would care about Frey were – the Starks. He almost panicked then.

He knew of no one with a stronger conviction to murder Freys than Arya. One whose conviction took her to Essos, enduring years of training and abuse by the Faceless Men, Jon knew, only to gain the knowledge how to take her revenge. When a trained assassin dies, do they forget their training?

Jon didn’t like the thought, but it was the only reason he could find for three hanged dead men dangling in front of him, and once more he felt the urge to howl. To cry. He didn’t feel so hungry anymore. He turned to leave this place, hoping he’ll forget. Hoping that one day he’ll be proven wrong, holding a very living Arya in his arms once more.

Ghost turned.

She must’ve been standing there for a while, Jon thought. He couldn’t smell her – of course he couldn’t, the air was filled with the smell of rotting flesh already. She didn’t seem to be alive either, though Jon wasn’t sure. Ghost sniffed but couldn’t pick up the rotting cent coming from her to confirm what her looks suggested. Still, there could not be a living soul in the land of the dead, only the pack of wolves still breathed the air, besides the black capes. She was not one of the black capes either.

She was someone else, someone from the distant past. As they stared each other, measuring up each other, Jon’s mind racing to accept the encounter.

Perhaps they lived when they were hung, but surely, she could not. Not for a long while. The only ones who cared about killing Freys were the Starks, Jon thought once more. The only one with a conviction strong enough for revenge even beyond death… was not Arya. Relief spread through him at the acceptance of the sight of the woman standing in front of him. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised, after all that he’s seen. And she’s been always so fierce in protecting her cubs, Lady Catelyn. A mother’s conviction, what else could be this strong? What else could inspire such vengeance beyond even death, even this war?

She reached out a hand toward Ghost then, and Jon wondered what to do for a moment, but the animal’s instinct at the sight of someone he knew proved to be stronger. Ghost gave the hand a long lick, before he decided, it was time to leave. Her hand wasn’t warm either. She didn’t seem to be living, after all. She couldn’t be.

Ghost walked away from whence he came, leaving her with the three dangling, kicking Freys.

*****

Davos looked ahead quietly, pulling closer the cape around his torso. The winds grew so much colder these past days. He studied the road ahead, beside him, Sam sat on a horse doing the same. Neither of them seemed to feel the need to speak, or to have anything to say. Davos wondered if Sam looked so grim for the same reason that he felt his heart clenching almost constantly. As if Sam believed what he believed.

Behind them, an army of twenty thousand prepared to camp leisurely, as if there was no war ongoing in the north, no danger at all.

“I think the battle has been fought,” Sam burst out, “It’s so cold…”

“It is way too cold for this time, I agree,” Humfrey said as he turned his horse around, to face the army behind them. He had reason to, Davos heard as well – a rider was forthcoming.

“I think they lost,” Sam whispered, just as the horse behind them stopped, and they all had to turn. It was Baelor Hightower, in his carefree demeanour that Davos by now grew very used to – along with the eating with the hands and the farts and the constant speaking of his mind. The “unusual” manners that Sam referred to. Davos even learned why Lord Baelor seemed so unnaturally proud for the kind of carefree man he was. It had to do with Elia Martell, the wife of Rhaegar Targaryen. She wasn’t her wife yet though, when it happened – young Elia visited Hightower, apparently old Lord Leyton looked to strike a marriage pact with Dorne. Who would’ve thought – Davos had to admit that while Hightower seemed to stay away from conflicts, they weren’t strangers to politics at all. Perhaps they were even masters of it.

As the tale goes, Elia and her brother Oberyn were playing with young Baelor, for they all were but children at the time, Lord Leyton hosting the Princess of Dorne and her two younger children, Elia and Oberyn, looking to arrange a double betrothal. Elia was said to warm toward the idea of becoming the wife of Baelor, heir of Hightower – obviously not knowing at the time just how long Baelor had to wait to come to that inheritance. But suddenly, Baelor the boy let out a fart. A fart. Davos still chuckled at the thought.

Elia and Oberyn laughed at it as well back then, as the story goes, so hard that little Baelor never recovered from the embarrassment. And from then on, Elia wasn’t keen on the marriage at all, they even dubbed the boy Baelor Breakwind for the deed.

Thus was the story that was meant to explain why Lord Baelor was so proud a man, so sensitive about any question of the authority and position of him, and that of Hightower. Perhaps it also explained why Baelor wasn’t keen to merely follow in his father’s footsteps. Yet Baelor was more than a proud, vain lord, and truly, beyond the name there was little to be vain about – he didn’t have anything else to show for it. As time passed, through the evenings spent besides campfires and discussions about the dead and the war, about Jon, and yes even Stannis, Davos grew to understand why Baelor wasn’t dubbed Breakwind anymore, even though he never kicked that habit. No, he was called Baelor Brightsmile by many, his easy-going attitude and his constant positive outlook even when paired with an unusually sound and grounded view of his prospects, made Ser Davos learn to respect the man.

“They suspect that Jon Targaryen lost at the Gods Eye,” Humfrey said sternly, as soon as they all turned. “They say that’s why the weather is turning so quickly.”

“What does a defeat in battle it to do with the weather?” Baelor asked with genuine curiosity.

“They bring the storm,” Sam whispered. Not much of an explanation, Davos knew, Baelor wouldn’t be satisfied with so little.

“When they attack, the temperature drops, considerably,” he added, “Sometimes there’s a storm. Sometimes all you notice that suddenly it’s so cold, you can see the whiteness of your own breath as the warm air leaves your body. Then you know, they are very near you.”

Baelor nodded, visibly processing what he’s heard.

“If this is true,” he said firmly towards Humfrey, “I cannot let you ride ahead.”

“If it’s true, it’s more reason to let me ride ahead,” Humfrey countered. “They are fighting dead men Baelor, soon there’ll be dead men under the walls of Kings Landing.”

Sam and Davos both turned toward Humfrey. It was true, they both realised at once.

“Give me five thousand,” Humfrey went further, “Let me ride ahead so I can aid them.”

Baelor merely shook his head, and Davos felt he’s had to agree – it was not safe.

“Baelor,” Humfrey’s pressed, “You want the Queen in the North agree to a marriage pact, and yet you wouldn’t let me prove myself to her. She’s leading her armies, Baelor, how could I expect a woman like that to accept me if I cannot even do the same?”

Davos chuckled. Young Humfrey really was something, while he wasn’t exactly sold on this marriage – the prospect of being King in the North didn’t appeal to the boy, even though anyone else would’ve probably grabbed the chance with both hands. Their brother Garth certainly would’ve – they heard his complaints often and loud, his disapproval of his own betrothal to Talla Tarly, how now that Sam has returned and Baelor promised the Lordship of Horn Hill as part of the pact, Garth didn’t even stand to become that, a nobody really. It was no mistake – the difference between Garth and Humfrey Hightower screamed at anyone spending no more than a few moments with the former. Garth was puny, he was a coward, he was no of no material that Kings are to be made of.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Humfrey,” Davos said then. “The dead hunt the living – a large army is prey to them, and they won’t come matching your number. IF they now wander these lands, it is best for the army to stay together. Do what Jon would do, one man sleeps the other guards, and never ever bring any of your dead into camp. Burn your dead bodies. They’re meat for their army as Jon calls it.”

Baelor nodded once more, and Davos was certain, he will take on the advice.

“I still want to ride ahead,” Humfrey said, “I made up my mind. You cannot dissuade me.”

“Fifty,” Davos said and Baelor and Humfrey both looked at him stunned.

“Give the boy fifty men – enough to discourage any vigilantes wandering these lands, after all that is the by-product of war. We’ll ride straight ahead and make for the Northern camp. They surely should reach Kings Landing by then, for they must be looking for good ground to fight.”

“There’s none of that south the Gods Eye,” Baelor nodded, “It’s woodland. I agree, if they lost the battle, they would look to retreat to Kings Landing.”

He turned toward Humfrey.

“Fifty it is,” he said with a sigh, weariness settling on his face. “See to it that you reach your destination, little brother. Don’t give me more reasons to seek revenge, I have plenty, and I’ve surely avenged you, even from the grave.”

That was Baelor’s way. He never said anything along the lines of loving his little brother, but by now, Davos knew, the young man beside him was perhaps the closest to Lord Baelor’s heart. There was a certain comradery between them.

The order’s been given, and fifty men duly lined up behind them so swiftly, Davos had to laugh at the obedience. If they only knew the mess they volunteered to ride into.

“Ser Davos!” As they moved, Lord Baelor called after him.

“Humfrey told me, your alliance is of anyone willing to fight for the living,” he said, and Davos nodded.

“If what you say is true, Ser Davos, Hightower would always be willing to fight for the living.”

He nodded once more as he turned his horse, wondering about Baelor’s last words to him. An alliance has been formed; he knew. They had the dead to thank for that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the 'addition' of the new character I hinted at in a comment previously...  
> While I always liked the idea (hoped for the show to add) I am no fan of her being the vengeance-machine she is in the books, so expect me to use some artistic license with her... She'll not be a plain vengeance-machine. She's also not entirely living - IMHO she can't be, she's spent three days in the water, thus looks more dead than alive.  
> As for how she could be still here - I screwed that, when I added Beric at the start, and killed Beric off at Winterfell, so I may not elude into it, or give her a different story. But she'll have a role to play.
> 
> Also, it was fun returning to one of the 'principles' I had at the start of this story - it's been long since I had the chance of taking a 'half-OK' scene from S8 and put my spin on it, so I've done it twice now in recent chapters. But the trial of Jaime is kinda special, because it was a major scene. I enjoy taking these scenes and turning them into different scenes with different meaning or motivations behind them, so this was fun that I didn't even plan for this chapter but took the opportunity.
> 
> Also, thanks for the comments on the last chapter confirming you're still interested / invested in the story!  
> I've had a bit of a crisis thinking, I'm just posting stuff for myself (would be waste of time, the chapters lately take much longer to write due to the intricacy of the plot lines that evolved). But here's the next one - I think it'll get only tenser from here.  
> For a while I was setting up the end-game, but this is the end game. Hope you like it!!


	65. The Crownlands III.

It must’ve been late in the morning, Jon perceived, yet the sun was barely visible – the land was covered in mist and fog, further limiting visibility in addition to the lack of sunlight. And warmth – it was truly a frozen wasteland now, and Jon wondered if it was the result of winter, being unusually harsh, or the fact that this was in effect the land of the dead now. He wondered if there were anyone living here, he amused himself this past night with thoughts of men in hiding, waiting for the dead to pass… could anyone hide from the dead?

Myles Thoyne rose hours ago, and instructed Lothston and the men to guard Jon’s body, not to move. Lothston questioned it – what if the dead return and ambush them? Thoyne said it’s unlikely, if they could only stay quiet and still. Yet Lothston argued that Thoyne is taking the only boat they had, when they know the dead don’t swim, Thoyne said so himself.

Thoyne’s reply amused Jon. He told Lothston, not to worry, soon ‘dragonboy’ will wake and he knows how to fight the dead. Lothston argued that Jon would not fight the dead to protect the men who abducted him… and Thoyne’s response made Jon think. He’s said, Jon would, because they are well beyond the enemy lines now, and Jon would also want to survive. Jon would need them. This really made Jon think, would he have need of them?

It didn’t matter much – he still didn’t manage to figure how to wake his body, he was locked out. He could only watch as Thoyne took the only boat, leaving Jon’s body behind with the men to Jon’s dismay and disbelief, and took off. He’s said he’s going to return by sundown with orders. He only took one man with him.

Soon after, Lothston decided to arrange a scouting party, thus further reducing the numbers. He led it himself – out of sheer boredom, as Jon perceived – and he took four others with him. This left only three to guard his body, and they didn’t like the arrangement any more than Jon did. In fact, they began to shush about killing it. What if he died, they could all leave this frozen wasteland. Except, they couldn’t agree where they would go. One of them suggested Essos, causing the others to laugh aloud – how in the seven hells would they get to Essos, swim across the Narrow Sea?! Then they began to contemplate returning to the Golden Company. Jon has wondered if they could, and they questioned it too, being completely convinced that by now if Griff survived the battle, he’d not only suspect them but would be looking for them. They’d lose their heads for mutiny, they concluded.

Thus the third black cape suggested to not go anywhere, wait for Lothston and pretend they did nothing – soon enough Lothston will check on the body, as he regularly did, and would see it passed. Then Lothston would give up sitting still here until they freeze, and they all would leave, eight of them standing much more chance to make it anywhere, out of here.

And what about Thoyne? They were afraid of Thoyne. They began to chatter about Thoyne having gone mad, for keeping Blackfyre as he did, for even coming up with this plan to snatch Jon away in the midst of the battle. No money was worth this hassle, they concluded.

At that, one of them voiced what Jon thought to be his greatest fear – soon enough the body will die anyways. It’s cold and pale, it didn’t wake for days, surely, they poisoned ‘dragonboy’ by accident. Perhaps they should do nothing, and it will all work out, they only need to be silent, so the dead don’t discover them. That’s why they just curled up against each other, having made the decision to sleep through the day for there was nothing else to do and kill the time until Lothston and Thoyne’s return.

It gave Jon the chance to check on the body as he always would. It worried him. He didn’t have time to wait for Lothston and Thoyne’s return. He knew well, he can do very little to protect and save the body, with his own ‘pack’ going hungry, it’s fresh meat for them. Despite their loyalty, they are direwolves after all. But at the same time, Jon became certain – the body will not make it unless something happens. It needed warmth, Jon decided, it needed fire. Black capes will never light a fire. Direwolves could not light a fire. But they had furs, they could curl around it and warm it? It was such a far-fetched idea, especially relying on the loyalty he’s questioned.

One of ‘his wolves’ returned with half of a deer, dragging it around. It was a dead deer, Jon wondered if it was chewed up by ice spiders. But Ghost was hungry, like the others, and when the silver-grey animal laid the deer at Ghost’s feet, Ghost ate. Not much, just enough to sooth his hunger, and he’s allowed the others to eat.

When they returned, black capes were still asleep. Nothing was amiss, as much as nothing could be amiss in the situation, and Jon made up his mind. They’ll never light a fire, he told himself again, his body will freeze, or worse, die and rise and march south straight for Sansa and Arya… He had to do something. Yes, wolves cannot carry a body, but they’ll have to figure out how. Because Jon won’t wait for these incapable fools to do it, to get him out of here. Besides, if they did – it would mean they took Jon’s body but not Ghost, and he’d be separated from his body for good. It was clear, they meant to take to the sea, even if in a dingy, but who knows where they’d go in that dingy. Kings Landing. Or they would mutiny and return to Essos. He’s never ‘woke’ from warging without having himself in sight. No, he had to act.

So he did.

It was so quick, the wolves merely surrounded the curled up black capes, growling. The men woke, the wolves attacked – Jon stood and watched from a distance, closely guarding his body. And the wolves ate themselves full – a welcome change, assuring that they won’t consider Jon’s body for supper.

It went very well, for a while. Then the dead began to move once more, and Jon panicked. They began to rise, and Jon launched for the throat of one. His example was followed, wolves tearing at dead throats, trying to separate heads from bodies. It’s one thing to tear it open, Jon thought, it’s another thing to separate head and body. He had to behead them, as he looked up watching wolves holding down three kicking dead men.

Then he saw her.

She walked closer slowly, and Jon hoped, because this was his only hope, that she’ll understand what is going on.

She glanced at Jon’s body, recognition on her face. Then dread. Then understanding.

Ghost ran to her, giving a bloody lick to her hand once more. Please. He turned, nudging a lost sword toward her in the snow.

She took the sword, and a whining Ghost ‘ordered’ the wolves to leave them necks alone.

She beheaded them, one by one. Then they didn’t move anymore. It was close, so very close. Who would’ve thought, one day it’ll be the Lady Catelyn, or whatever this creature was that remained of her, who’ll save Jon’s life, for he was certain, the dead would’ve killed the body. They would’ve known whose it was, he would’ve seen it through their eyes. The whole army would’ve returned here as fast as they could.

Who knows, perhaps they will return here anyways, just as fast. Jon knew he had to move the body and get out of here. He gently grabbed the cape it was rolled into, and began to drag at it. The silver haired one followed suit, and more, and wolves began to drag the body away from the gruesome scene. Lady Catelyn took the swords and followed them, but soon enough, came to the front and led them. Jon decided there wasn’t much else to it but to follow.

*****

 

Tyrion startled for a moment. Waiting for the guards to do as they were told, he wondered once more if this was a good idea. They may as well go and report to Daenerys. She may as well believe it to be something else than what it was.

He only came to see his brother.

It wasn’t exactly easy to arrange. He’s found that his Valyrian was even rustier than the last time he’s attempted to use it. He’s also had to realise, more and more Unsullied speak the common tongue, no doubt in preparation to settle once their Queen won the Iron Throne, he thought.

Even more disturbing was the fact that they really seemed to care little of who Tyrion was. It was unnerving him, the lack of trust shown to him, as he reminded them, their orders meant nothing to him – as Hand of the Queen, he outranked anyone who gave those orders, lest the Queen herself. But it wasn’t the Queen who gave orders not to allow anyone near Jaime Lannister, it was Grey Worm, Tyrion knew.

Jaime sat still, tied to a post. He wondered what to say, but there wasn’t really anything to say, as he walked around to see Jaime’s defeated face.

“Cersei once called me the stupidest Lannister,” Jaime whispered. “Perhaps she was right. Stupid, honourable fool that I am.”

“See it as an opportunity, there’s good in everything bad,” Tyrion remarked. In his mind, he went through this conversation at least a dozen times before he came here. He knew what he came for. “You’re going back to her, so you can talk sense into her.”

“She would never agree to the terms…” He continued explaining his thought process, “I am no fool, I can see that. But you can convince her, once you’re in, you’ll have the chance to convince her. You have to, else Daenerys will attack the city and she’ll die.”

“You’ve underestimated her before,” Jaime remarked.

“She is going to die,” Tyrion emphasized. “And you’ll die with her, unless you convince her to change her course of action, release Jon and give up the Iron Throne for Daenerys.”

“That would be somewhat difficult,” Jaime scoffed. “When have I ever been able to convince Cersei of anything?”

“Try,” Tyrion nodded, “If not for yourself or for her, then for the millions of people in the city and of Westeros, who are facing certain death, innocent or otherwise.”

“To be honest I never really cared for the people,” Jaime smirked, “Innocent or otherwise.”

“I don’t believe that,” Tyrion whispered, “YOU don’t believe that. You certainly do care for one innocent, at the least.”

“I know you do, and so does Cersei. She has a reason now,” Tyrion argued desperately.

“The child is the reason she’ll never give an inch,” Jaime countered. “All the worst thing she’s ever done, she’s done for her children. It’s not impossible that she will prevail.”

“She won’t,” Tyrion shook his head. “Her armies deserted her, the dead are coming, if not the living, then the dead will sack the city and it will fall.”

“Her enemies’ forces have been depleted as she said they would be,” Jaime ignored Tyrion’s comment, somewhat delusional, Tyrion thought as he listened. “Two of her dragons are lost. She’s evened the odds.”

“The city will fall,” Tyrion repeated desperately. He wanted desperately to shake some sense into his brother, the fool, despite how he understood. Jaime’s betrayed everything he’s known, to become good, only to be thrown at Cersei’s feet as bait, betrayed by those whose acceptance he’s yearned to gain. “I’ve defended Kings Landing the last time it was attacked, I know it better than anyone. We have over fifty thousand men and they will attack the city, either while still breathing, or dead. The city WILL fall.”

“Then I suppose we’ll all die,” Jaime remarked with a grin. He’s given up, Tyrion could see, He really didn’t seem to care.

“Why?” Tyrion asked then. He leaned closer.

“Escape,” he whispered. “The two of you, together. Remember where we met? Where we kept the dragon skulls beneath the red keep? Release Jon, then take her down there, keep following the steps down, as far as they go, you’ll come out at a beach at the foot of the keep. There are dinghies there. Sail out of the bay, if the winds are kind, you’ll make it to Pentos. Start a new life, have your child born.”

“Sail away and start a new life,” Jaime shook his head, “Sounds la lot less likely than Cersei willing to…”

“There won’t be another chance,” Tyrion argued, interrupting him. “Do it, if you don’t, she’ll die and your baby will die, only you can persuade her. She must give up. Swear to me.”

Jaime pondered for a moment, a very long moment as Tyrion waited.

“What about Jon,” he asked.

“You’ll release Jon,” Tyrion said, “And he’ll defeat the Night King, and Daenerys will take the city without bloodshed.”

“And after?”

Tyrion shrugged.

“She’ll marry him,” he whispered, “That is what she wants, she’s in love with him. As long as Cersei stands between her and Jon… she’ll die, if you don’t do this, if she doesn’t give up, she’ll die.”

“Do you believe it,” Jaime asked then. “Do you believe she’ll be good, better than Cersei, Robert and all them fuckers before her, her own father… do you really, truly believe it?”

“She’ll be better than her father or Cersei,” Tyrion said. “She’ll have Jon to guide her. To temper her.”

“And what about me?”

Tyrion didn’t understand.

“What about me,” Jaime repeated, “My word that I will fight for the living. The trust that Jon has put in me, you ask me to betray…”

“I ask you to save the living,” Tyrion leaned close once more, “Save Jon, save the people, save Cersei… You can end the wars, only you can. Swear to me.”

Another long moment followed, as Jaime stared ahead into the distance.

“You’ll tell him,” he said then, his eyes desperate, “You’ll tell Jon it wasn’t me. Those letters… it wasn’t me I swear...”

“Jon will know,” Tyrion nodded, “I swear, so now swear to me.”

Finally, Jaime nodded, “You have my word.”

Tyrion sighed of relief.

“It’ll be tomorrow, after we arrived, if Cersei agrees to parley,” He began to explain. “If it works, give the order to ring all the bells in Kings Landing, and open the gates. That will be our signal that the city has surrendered.”

Jaime nodded again. For another moment, they simply stared at each other.

“I never thought I’ll get to repay the favour, more or less…” Tyrion whispered. “Remember, ring the bells and open the gates. Tens of thousands, millions of innocent lives will be saved. We’ll end the wars. And if Daenerys can make it through the throne without wading through a river of blood, maybe she’ll show mercy to those who made it possible and allow your return. In time.”

“The two sons of Lannister,” Jaime said sarcastically, “Ending the wars and restoring Targaryen rule. Father would be proud of this legacy.”

Tyrion felt the rush of emotions overtaking him. “We’ll likely never speak again,” Jaime added, no doubt the same dawning on him. No, he didn’t believe Daenerys would ever show mercy or clemency. Not after being arrested during council, to be used as bait.

“If it weren’t for you, I never would’ve survived my childhood,” Tyrion said then, tears brimming in his eyes.

“You would have,” Jaime argued, eyes also filling up at the sight of him. But Tyrion merely shook his head, as he knelt beside his brother.

“You were the only one,” he whispered, “Who didn’t treat me like a monster… You were all I had.”

The hug that followed was tight, both holding on to the other lengthily, forcibly, as if holding on to dear life. That is what it was – holding on to life. Tyrion wept, finally letting go of something that gripped at his heart for longer than he could remember, through all the years of scorn, as he once more became the little boy that he used to be, holding on to the only one who ever cared. His brother. Then he stood, and left the tent, without a word.

*****

They’ve been dragging the body for an hour or even more, through rocky grounds, and Jon wondered how many bones they may have broken. She’s led them into a small cave, turning and turning in the darkness. The wolves grew more and more restless.

Then she stopped and fiddled with something. Soon there was a spark. Fire.

She moved swiftly. Unwrapping the body, freeing it from its frozen furs and leathers. Ghost sniffed and nudged at it constantly. But no, Jon couldn’t wake it, as panic settled in at the touch of the cold skin on Ghost’s nose. He watched as she handled it, as she examined it, limb by limb, bone by bone. He could make out the small cut on the forearm – surely where the poison was administered, it was still fresh, without healing.

She then dragged the body close to the fire, as close as it could be without the capes that it laid on catching flame, and she sat back, watching it.

Ghost allowed a thin howl, a cry out, as he washed the dried blood off the side of the head, out of the tangled curls of hair. Then he laid out, across the body. He meant to warm it, to wake it. The silver haired wolf followed his example, and then others moved to do the same. Soon the body was surrounded by furs, the warm bodies of wolves keeping it from freezing in its nakedness. The silver haired one gave Ghost a long lick, Jon feeling the warmth that spread through the body. That wolf knew, he thought.

He watched the woman that once was Lady Catelyn. How many times did she scorn him, how many times did she dismiss him, treat him for the bastard she believed him to be… Jon was certain, Lady Catelyn never knew who he really was.

Their eyes met, and she held the gaze of the wolf. Slowly, she raised her hand, placing it on his heart. She mouthed something, that Jon couldn’t make out. She mouthed it again.

_Stoneheart._

Ghost stood slowly, carefully, waiting for the other wolves to shuffle, to take up his post as they took to go back to snooze curling around his body. Then he left, for the woman. She didn’t startle, didn’t move. She wasn’t afraid, Jon realised, and Ghost dumped himself beside her, curling against her cold body. It still felt warm to Jon, it felt soothing.

Ghost looked up, to see the woman’s eyes brimming with tears.

Did she understand?

They sat for a while, both watching as the wolves slept, at times shuffling, but always covering the body in front of them. Occasionally, one or the other snored, as dogs also often do. One of them turned onto its back beside the body, legs in the air. They felt safe with her.

Slowly, she raised her free hand, Ghost leaning against the other, and this time, she covered the cut that severed her throat.

“I remember,” She said, her words barely understandable, clearly a struggle for her to speak them, not just because of what those words were to be. “Many years ago, he came down with the pox. Master Lewin said, if he made it through the night, he’d live. But it would be a very long night. So I sat with him all through the darkness, listened to his ragged little breaths, his coughing, his whimpering…”

She paused, as Ghost shuffled to be closer. Her words made Jon sad, so incredibly sad. He could barely recall the pox – he certainly couldn’t recall the night she was talking about.

“When my husband brought him back after the war, I couldn’t bear to look at him. I didn’t want to see those grey Stark eyes stare at me, so I prayed to the Gods, take him away, make him die. He got the pox. And I knew, I was the worst woman that ever lived. A murderer. I condemned this poor innocent child to a horrible death, all because I was jealous of his mother.”

“So I prayed to all seven Gods, let the boy live. Let him live, and I will love him. I’ll be a mother to him. I’ll beg my husband to give him a true name, call him Stark and be done with it. To make him one of us.”

And he lived. And I couldn’t keep my promise.”

Her voice chuckled, as she seemed to try to swallow, the tears breaking free, running down her cold, pale face.

“And everything that’s happened since then, all the horror that’s come to my family, it was all because I couldn’t love a motherless child. I didn’t know.”

She sighed, the motion in her chest startling Ghost for a moment, as if she was waiting for something.

“He lived,” she continued, with a certain resolution in her ragged, frail voice. “He saved them. He avenged them, took back everything that was taken from us. The White Wolf, he was always one of us. I saw him riding a dragon. He’s a dragonwolf.”

*****

They hid in the woods, men laying in the half-frozen mud, and watched.

An army was marching past, bearing dozens of flags with the same sigil, a cluster of grape on blue. House Redwyne was on the march.

Davos studied Humfrey’s face, all the while wondering if it was a smart idea to encourage the boy riding ahead with them. Even more so, if it was a good idea to bring only fifty men. But if they had more, they couldn’t have hidden them in the woods – no they would be forced to face what seemed to be an endless column of thousands. It was better this way, Davos concluded.

Humfrey, for all the signs of wisdom in him, was young and hot-headed, just like any younger brother of a lord would be, before they ever saw war. Real war, with all its gore and extremity and devastation. That’ll change him. Davos once more wondered if it was the right idea to allow the boy to ride ahead with them.

He’ll see war, more than what he’s bargained for. For all Davos could tell, he was brave, he didn’t shy from a fight. But the real test is in battle, words are only just that, words. It’s easy to be brave and willing around the dinner table, or at the head of twenty thousand marching through peaceful lands. It’s much different standing on the battlefield, staring at the crosses with the flayed men burning on them. Staring at the mass of rotting corpses running towards you, eager to force you to join them.

All of them laid still while the forces marched past on the road. Humfrey’s eyebrows drew closer and closer, he didn’t like what he saw.

“Ten thousand, at the least,” Humfrey whispered, as soon as they passed. “On the Roseroad ahead of us… Surely they were at the ready against Highgarden. Redwyne, that snake,” he hissed.

“We are lucky, they caught no sight of us,” Davos remarked, as the men around them slowly began to rise, following their lord’s example. They seemed to treat Humfrey with the same respectful reverence they treated his older brother. It gave Davos the notion that perhaps these Highgarden brothers weren’t half as notorious as the tales about them indicated. They certainly didn’t seem to be necromancers and the like. Just ordinary men, trying to make it in this shit world with what they got. Trying to do good, Davos was convinced, trying to survive the game of thrones.

“You’d be high price against your brother,” he added, watching as Sam slowly got up from the ground, and mounted his horse. “We’ll have to circle around them.”

“They march to Kings Landing,” Humfrey remarked, “They’ll see the allied armies there, too.”

It made Davos think. Baelor was certain that Redwyne would not submit to Cersei, that the Lord of the Arbor would instead declare for Daenerys, following the example of the late Queen of Thorns, his kin. Where else to do that, but under Kings Landing.

“I fear we may have caused the problems we were eager to avoid thus far,” he whispered, and Humfrey gave him a questioning look.

“Jon’s been working hard to avoid the ill will between the Queens to escalate,” Davos explained. “If your brother is right, Lord Paxter will declare for Daenerys under Kings Landing, your brother certainly expects that.”

“And we will declare for Queen Sansa,” Humfrey smiled, “And Jon Targaryen. As long as they are in the same army, fighting the same enemy, what could be wrong with that? Perhaps it is what’s needed to avoid the war in the Reach.”

“Doesn’t Lord Redwyne want the Lordship Paramount, tho,” Sam asked as he stopped his horse next to them, watching them mount. “And Lord Baelor, too, so he can prevent Lord Redwyne taking it.”

Realisation dawned on Humfrey’s face. “Are you saying, our journey is now futile?”

“I say no such thing,” Davos smiled, “There are worse matters to deal with, the dead, Cersei Lannister… whomever gets the Lordship Paramount is not of immediate concern. In any case, if Daenerys wants one lord and Jon another, let them work it out in a way that avoids bloodshed. Jon would not allow further bloodshed, there’s been enough of it.”

“Redwyne will demand it from Queen Daenerys,” Humfrey said grimly.

“And Queen Daenerys wants the Iron Throne,” Davos countered. “Redwyne will have to prove his worth first, I am sure of it. The same is true for your brother. And the Queen, she listens to Jon’s advice.”

*****

The raven landed on the arm of the maester, waiting patiently as the scroll was untied from its leg, then eagerly departed, keen to leave behind his duties as messenger now that he’s caught an opportunity. The men merely stared to the sky after it.

One of them took the scroll in one hand, his other pulling the hooded cape tightly at his neck – the winds grew colder and stronger by the day. Then he unrolled it to read.

Another man came forth, “What does it say?”

“She won’t join us, I am afraid,” the man with the scroll answered.

“That is a problem.”

“Not one we cannot deal with,” the man’s voice rang carefree in the wind. “She’s with the armies. The boy isn’t. That’s a problem solved for you, isn’t it? Yet I find…” the man put his hand on the shoulder of his companion, turning him and ushering him to go back inside.

“Perhaps it is better for you not to come to Kings Landing. Let us resolve the matters at hand, it is better if you take no part. You’ll be her choice to turn to, when it all concludes, my friend confirmed it. She’s aware of her options.”

“What about the cats? You take them with you…”

“Oh no,” the man laughed, “No, I’ll leave them. I’ll have no need for them. The Company will be there. It’s all going according to plan.”

“Is it,” his companion didn’t sound convinced. “She’s supposed to be here. She’s supposed to join us.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for you to spend with her once this is over,” the man said, “You’ll have a whole lifetime. Let us keep you above all these matters, it is easier this way.”

 


	66. Kings Landing I.

 

Jon left the body in Lady Catelyn’s care. There was no doubt in him that she would care for it – not after what she’s said. He spent some time thinking it through, seeing it all from her perspective: a woman believing herself to be scorned by her husband, the proof of the betrayal living, breathing right in front of her eyes. Jon felt for her. It’s not that he never understood, he knew well the reason for her animosity, even hatred against him. But now, knowing what he’s learned, perhaps in part of that animosity was caused by her own failure. She failed to uphold her oath to the Gods.

Jon didn’t believe for a second that it had anything to do with anything, none of what happened was due to the wrath of the Gods against the Lady Catelyn. The horror she referred to, it all happened because of the wrath and greed of living men. And women. Cersei, to be exact, she’s been the cause of a lot of it.

It amazed him really, the hatred he could feel for Cersei, this woman who never spoke a single word to him, didn’t even waste a glance on him, when she visited Winterfell. Jon knew she was busy with hidden liaisons with her brother in the broken tower, but still, the sheer depth of the hatred he felt stunned him. Yes, he hated Cersei, for everything she’s done to Sansa, for betraying them during the war multiple times, for his abduction… he cursed her for all of it.

The silver haired wolf was the only one following him, and the two of them returned to the scene of their crime. Jon had to know what will unfold, he thought. He had to learn more about them, their plans, for if he can ever make it back into his own body, he means to thwart those plans. Then he will also take his revenge to Cersei, teach her the lesson. Perhaps the way he thought Harry Strickland or Euron Greyjoy, but it didn’t feel right. No, he’s decided those days have to be over, he has to temper it, like Reed counselled him to. He’ll imprison Cersei, for Jaime Lannister, to save the child. The child was innocent. And once it’s born, he’ll try Cersei, and execute her. That was all. He’ll declare all her crimes throughout the years, make it known to all – after all Lannisters were always so sensitive about legacy, Sansa told him enough. He’ll make sure to destroy her legacy, whatever it was, and he’ll make sure that her legacy will become the pain, the fear and the misery she’s caused.

By the time they reached the camp of the black capes, Lothston was back. There was no sound, Lothston and his men sat near the three beheaded, torn bodies, and ate. That amused Jon, especially when he saw what they ate. Roots of plants. Compared to that, he was glad for once to share Ghost’s hunger and subsequent satisfaction at dining on a deer earlier, and at the taste of blood of men.

He arrived just in time, he could see as he looked forward, out to the sea. Movement. Soon it came closer, and he could see it was a dingy. Not one even, but three, as it came closer, two empty dinghies tied to the one Thoyne and his companion sat in, rowing closer and closer to the shore. Lothston and his men stood.

“What the fuck,” Thoyne hissed.

“Dragonboy awoke,” Lothston declared.

“And you let him go, eight of you and one of him, unarmed,” Thoyne hissed, “And you let him escape?!”

“We were away,” Lothston shrugged, “We have to eat, Thoyne. We went scouring for food, and when we returned, dragonboy was gone. Them three left like this.”

Thoyne walked closer, around the bodies, studying them. “This wasn’t the dragonboy,” he said lowly, “These bites… these were fucking wolves.”

“Then perhaps he didn’t wake,” Lothston said, “Perhaps some wolves came upon the camp and dragged dragonboy away, no doubt feasting on him by now.”

Hopefully not.

“Seems more likely than one boy disarming three men of the Company,” Thoyne said, then he turned toward them with an amused look, “I left to bring three fucking dinghies. Now we only need two.” He shrugged, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

It does matter. Thank you, Myles Thoyne. With that dingy, Lady Catelyn and I can take my body south. Thank you, now get lost and leave it here.

Thoyne nodded to his companion who handed little bundles to the men. They hastily unwrapped it – bread, cheese in them. Their mood considerably lightened, as they all sat down once more, and the men ate. Jon wondered if this was all the reaction. Wasn’t he their prized possession? Weren’t they to return him to Cersei?

He didn’t have to wait much longer.

“What will we tell the Mad Queen,” Lothston asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Thoyne shrugged, “Just eat and follow orders and it’ll be fine.”

“Surely it matters,” Lothston argued, “You’re not my commander, Myles, you’re not above me in rank. So, let’s talk and decide what should we tell the Mad Queen.”

“Told you Lothston, it does not matter,” Thoyne declared annoyed, “We won’t return to the Mad Queen.”

“Then how will we get paid,” Lothston argued, looking around, at all their faces now likely wondering the same.

“We won’t,” Thoyne scoffed. “What do I care? I care not. I have Blackfyre, it’s better than anything she can pay us. It’s what I needed.”

“We’ve not done the job,” one of the men remarked.

“And whose fault is that?!” Thoyne scoffed once more, rising in anger from where he sat. “You’ve not delivered the Stark Queen and you’ve not delivered the Dragon Queen. We delivered the boy, then you lost him. What the fuck you asking me for payment!”

“We have to return to the Mad Queen, Myles,” Lothston argued, clearly trying to sooth Thoyne’s temper, “Our word as good as gold, remember? The Company has to honour our word, there is no other way. We just have to tell her; the boy is dead by wolves.”

“We will not return to the Mad Queen,” Thoyne hissed once more.

“You don’t get to decide, I told you,” Lothston stood, “We all decide, we discuss it and we agree. I say, we should return.”

Thoyne took a few steps from where they sat, before he turned. To Jon’s amusement, he draw Blackfyre.

“This here, says I get to decide,” He hissed. “How will you convince me otherwise, Lothston?”

Lothston stepped forward, “I don’t want to kill you Myles. Put that down, we’ll return to the Queen, we’ll turn he Company and if you’re elected, you can fuckin wave Blackfyre for the rest of your life for all I care. That is the way.”

Thoyne laughed instead, “You killing me, Lothston! As if you could. Now, sit down, finish the fucking cheese and we leave, and you fucking obey.”

“I told you, you’re not above me in rank.”

Jon wanted to laugh, as Lothston drew his sword. These fools are going to fight right here in the middle of this dead wasteland, about where to go in their dinghies. And they did, if it could be called much of a fight.

Thoyne was good, Jon had to admit. He’d sweat meeting him on a battlefield, for sure. Lothston, well he wasn’t near as good, perhaps thinking himself better than he was. It didn’t take long for his blood to wash the ground. He will rise, Jon knew.

They were caught surprised by it, still shocked from the fact that he was dead, and he was already on his feet, demanding the rematch. He went for Thoyne at first, but all of them jumped and drew swords. Thoyne stepped behind the line of men, and so wight Lothston had to settle with another. He did.

Now there’s only six of them, Jon thought. Five. Another fell to wight Lothston, before Thoyne cut it down with Blackfyre. They had no other Valyrian steel with them, they surely had no dragonglass and well, they didn’t light a fire.

“Fire!” Thoyne yelled as the other two began to rise, “Light a fucking fire!”

Three joined Thoyne in defending the one who scrambled to light a fire. He was slow. These Essosi know little about winter, Jon concluded, watching the entertainment. He didn’t feel sorry for them, not in the least. They could all kill each other here for all Jon cared, as long as they leave Blackfyre behind for him. In fact, that’s a most preferable outcome, he concluded, and began to root for it in earnest.

One more of the living black capes fell to the dead black capes, and if Jon could, he surely would’ve laugh aloud. Finally though, the one in the back managed to spark a fire. It wasn’t much, but he lit branches with it, and throw them at one of the wights. It burned.

Now there’s four to one, except, as they all startled at the effect of fire, another of them fell. Three to two. Jon began to hope, really hope.

But by now they learned. They alit one of them wights, just as Thoyne launched at the one beginning to rise, and Blackfyre proved to be effective enough.

Jon had a choice to make. Should he kill them? But there was only Ghost and the Silver, for he began to call the wolf Silver. He wouldn’t want to lose Silver, or risk himself, even. There was still three of them. No, he had to let them go.

He watched as the remaining three, including Thoyne still holding Blackfyre, stood watching the burning corpses.

“Well,” Thoyne declared, “Now we only need one fucking dingy. What a waste of effort, we had one fucking dingy. Let’s get out of here.”

*****

Tyrion sat alone, watching the men making camp. As he turned to the south, he could see the red capes, shining armours with no doubt lions on their shoulders, men rushing about atop the wall. Ballistae placed atop every tower. Cersei was prepared for dragons.

He watched as those Lannister men – not Lions, he remarked to himself – took their positions, soon all movement ceased. Behind him, men slowly settled with their tents, lighting their fires. Order has been given to rest, as usual – one sleeps, one guards. The men didn’t seem to be fazed by the fact that they were under the walls, perhaps even within shot of those ballistae – if anything, they seemed relieved. They seemed much calmer now, their expression betrayed a sense of false security. They arrived.

Tyrion watched as the gate opened and about twenty guards exited the city, lining up on the path. It was time, perhaps it was the sign. He didn’t receive any response – he did wonder about that; how would a raven find the camp? He didn’t really know how ravens ‘worked’, he realised. How they always knew where to fly, and how to find their destination.

Behind him, Daenerys rode forth with twenty more men, Missandei and Grey Worm. He could see Jaime’s golden armour amidst them, and a spare horse. Intended for him. He was to arrange this, he reminded himself. His eyes settled on his brother, as he stood to walk toward the horse, to be helped up, never letting his gaze leave his brother, cursing himself, yet hoping, as if his own life depended on it. Hoping Jaime will find a way to keep his word – that he will be able to do the impossible. He’ll convince Cersei.

Thy rode near and stopped. Tyrion dismounted, and walked past the lined soldiers, looking up at those holding arrows aimed at him from atop the wall. How easy it would be, he thought. He couldn’t see Cersei. She won’t be dealing with him in person then.

Just then, the gate opened. Cersei’s Hand stepped out, all by himself, walking leisurely toward where he stood. Tyrion’s mind began racing, reviewing what he’s intended to say. How he’ll play this.

“My Lord,” Qyburn stopped in front of him. His face as if he was no more but a mere aging maester. He was no maester, Tyrion knew too well. He took a deep breath.

“Queen Daenerys demands Cersei’s unconditional surrender, and the immediate release of Jon Targaryen.”

Qyburn’s face twisted, merely for a split second, barely noticeably, as if he heard some surprising news. It made Tyrion wonder, as he listened, but Qyburn didn’t say anything unexpected.

“Queen Cersei demands Daenerys’ unconditional surrender. If she refuses, Jon Snow the bastard of Winterfell will die.”

“Qyburn,” Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “You’re a rational man?”

“Or so I flatter myself, my Lord,” Qyburn said, somewhat surprised.

“We have a chance here,” Tyrion began, “Perhaps our last chance to avoid carnage?”

“Yes,” Qyburn agreed, visibly expecting further explanation. This man was no politician, Tyrion concluded.

“Help me,” he said, “I don’t want to see this city burn. I don’t want to hear the screams of children burning alive.”

“No, it is not a pleasant sound.” What was wrong with this man? Tyrion began to feel the urge to slap the Hand.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he declared, lowering his voice, hoping the gain of some privacy will perhaps open the thick head in front of him to some actually productive conversation. “Help me save this city.”

“My Lord, I am only a mouthpiece for our Queen,” Qyburn declared instead. As if he had no brains of his own, Tyrion noted to himself.

“Your Queen,” he corrected.

“Cersei is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You are her subjects.”

“Cersei has no right to the Seven Kingdoms, the right which is…” No, he doesn’t mean to say this. “Her reign is over, you understand it? Help her understand it.”

“We understand nothing of the sort,” Qyburn protested with feigned surprise, and for the first time, Tyrion saw through the mask. “Your Queen arrived under our walls with one dragon, and an army that is battle weary and depleted. The walls have been reinforced, my Lord, it is not the city you defended.”

Tyrion sighed. Of course, while Dany demanded that he asks for surrender, the response is just what could’ve been expected. Now the game begins.

“Do you understand what is coming after us, Qyburn?” He asked. “Have you seen the army of the dead?”

“I have indeed seen a dead man.” Qyburn began to explain his experience, “A certain Ser Davos Seaworth brought it to Kings Landing, to show my Queen, and I believe my Queen provided aid, forces led by her own brother Ser Jaime Lannister, to assist in the war against these dead.”

“Well,” Tyrion sighed, “We’ve not defeated them. We’ve not defeated them because the one person who could defeat them is held by Cersei. Because, between the two of us, those letters that her… our brother kept sending to advise her of our movements greatly hindered us, dividing our attention.”

Qyburn’s face once more noted a kind of surprise.

“I am sorry to hear of your troubles,” Qyburn remarked.

“Me too,” Tyrion remarked. “My Queen decided to show mercy, Qyburn. She understands the value placed on Ser Jaime’s person by your Queen.”

“Ser Jaime is indeed a valuable and capable commander,” Qyburn agreed. This is proving to be hard, much harder than Tyrion expected. The man’s face betrayed no emotion, the mask was firmly worn. Tyrion took a few steps closer.

“I’ve relayed my Queen’s demands,” he said lowly, “Knowing well these will be refused. Let us speak as the statesmen we are. I don’t demand surrender, you don’t demand surrender, and we can discuss how we could compromise, and focus on the real problem here. The dead marching on your Queen’s capitol.”

There it was, just a fickle of emotion, wonder. Good.

“I am listening, my Lord,” Qyburn said, his voice considerably lower.

“Jon Targaryen,” Tyrion declared. “He has the singular ability to kill this… creature that raises the dead. Don’t ask me how, I know nothing of it, but he does. Needless to say, he cannot kill it while rotting in the black cells. I’ve convinced my Queen, instead of burning Ser Jaime alive for the betrayal, let us show our goodwill.”

Qyburn raised an eyebrow. “Goodwill?”

“Yes, goodwill,” Tyrion repeated. “If you heard of the fate of the Tarlys, you know what I am talking about. Now, say, my Queen allows Ser Jaime to return to your Queen. In turn, your Queen releases Jon Targaryen. It’s a win-win, for your Queen’s capitol will not be invaded by dead men.”

“Your Queen’s forces stand between the city and these dead men,” Qyburn remarked.

“From your perspective, that is true,” Tyrion smirked. “However, we’ve marched here for exactly that reason. We deploy the same battle plan, every single time. We lure them in, and we encircle them. Then we burn them.”

“I don’t understand, my Lord,” Qyburn said hesitantly, “If you cared to elaborate…”

“Of course,” Tyrion smiled, “I would not expect you to be a battle commander, you’re a maester judging by your attire… It is simple really. We will move our forces aside. The path will be clear toward the city. We will encircle them from the back, their only escape the city walls. They climbed THE WALL, Qyburn. Your city walls are nothing to them. They’ll swarm into the city. I…” He took a deep breath, and continued, merely whispering, “I am not supposed to share this with you. Your Queen and her capitol are the bait. We will merely encircle the city, like a siege, and burn it along with the dead, after we allowed them, even chased them to scale the walls and sack it. That is my Queen’s battleplan, a hit on two birds with one stone, as they say. But like I said, I, personally, don’t want to see this city burn.”

Qyburn’s face darkened somewhat. “And what will you do with… the one who raises the dead?”

“He’ll raise no children burned alive, that much is certain,” Tyrion nodded, “It is a relief, really. I’ve seen the rotting corpses of children that we’ve had to burn before. As you said, not pleasant.”

“However,” Tyrion continued, “As I said, I persuaded my Queen to release Ser Jaime. You release Jon Targaryen, he defeats this … demon, and all the dead die with it. See? No need for elaborate battleplans, no excuse to burn the city. Your capitol, saved.”

“And once the city is saved, my Lord?” Qyburn drew his eyebrows closer. “Will your Queen surrender?”

“One step at a time, Qyburn,” Tyrion said, “One good deed at a time. First, let you and I save this city, and reunite your Queen and her traitorous… brother. Let us solve our most immediate problem.”

“As I see, my Lord,” Qyburn said, “There will be many losses on your side, while you encircle the dead.”

“As you said, our army is battle weary and depleted,” Tyrion nodded, “Now you can see why.”

“My Lord,” Qyburn said suddenly, “I am quite unsure, how to relay this to my Queen. Understandably, she will be quite worried, not receiving any assurances, again.”

“I understand your concern,” Tyrion gave a slight smile, “I have thought so myself. Especially in her condition… we hear your Queen is with child.”

Qyburn nodded, quite hesitantly.

“Truth now,” Tyrion said sternly. “I know she doesn’t care about her people, the city sacked by dead men and burned… why should she? They hate her, and she hates them. But she’s not a monster. She always loved her children, more than herself, more than Ser Jaime, more than anything. I loved them too, and it is my own nephew or niece growing in her belly. That is why I treat with you openly. If my Queen burns the city, if my Queen has to sacrifice this city, and lose her… nephew, she will not care. But your Queen doesn’t have to die. Her baby doesn’t have to die. The key to their survival is in the black cells under the Red Keep, I suspect.”

Qyburn listened, intently, just as Tyrion hoped. He paused to study the face. The mask was firmly gone.

“Jon Targaryen is quite important to my Queen,” Tyrion whispered, “Just as Ser Jaime is… well, important to your Queen. You see what I am trying to do here, Qyburn? Because Jon Targaryen is also a man of his word. Jon Targaryen also cares for the innocents, and my Queen listens to no one like Jon Targaryen.”

He paused once more, to allow the man in front of him to take it in.

“You ask for assurance,” He explained further, “Jon Targaryen is your assurance.”

“I don’t understand how the release of the man so… important to your Queen could mean assurance to my Queen, my Lord,” Qyburn whispered, “Surely, it is the release of the only hostage whose current condition is preventing the carnage you spoke of.”

“If I may speak truly, for you spoke truly to me, my Lord Tyrion, and I mean to return the favour, you are correct in saying that he is the assurance of my Queen. Surely the release of the man would leave us defenceless, his presence in the city is what would prevent your Queen from the battleplan you described.”

“Except that it doesn’t,” Tyrion said. “The dead are coming, Qyburn. Once they arrive, my Queen will not wait or negotiate. She will no longer have this chance to save Jon Targaryen, and so she will save her armies, because her choice will be whether to be crushed between the dead and the city walls, or execute the very plan that Jon Targaryen taught her.”

“She knows that Jon Targaryen’s life may likely be lost if she attacked, because that’s what I told her when I convinced her to parley. Once the dead are here, and we have wasted what little chance we have here, she will rather choose to save her army, because let’s face it, she came for the Iron Throne.”

“There is a different problem,” Qyburn leaned closer, “one that seems to elude you and your Queen, my Lord.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

“This… Jon Targaryen,” Qyburn said, “If what we hear is true, he is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Tyrion nodded, “Yes, he is. Only surviving son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Which makes him…”

“The rightful heir to the Iron Throne,” Tyrion interrupted completing the sentence. “Except, he’s abdicated.”

Qyburn stood straight at that, his face betraying his complete surprise.

“It is true, Ser Jaime and many lords and ladies, including the Queen in the North, can all testify. He resigned it in favour of my Queen.”

“Why would he do such a thing,” Qyburn remarked in disbelief.

“A political arrangement,” Tyrion explained nonchalantly as if it was nothing. “Simply put, he has no desire for crowns. His war is against the dead, he’ll tell you so himself, if you ask. He gave up his kingdom to Sansa Stark, and he gave up his birthright, to my Queen, his heir and next in line. All he wanted from them is to uphold the alliance he created, that is the only reason he accepted the Crown of the North before. To bring us all together to fight.”

Qyburn nodded; his face clearly troubled. Tyrion nodded too, to drive home his words. His mind was already racing what else may be asked, what loopholes he didn’t think of, were there any?

His eyes scoured the walls, but Cersei didn’t come to watch. How typical, allowing others to do her bidding. He turned to see his own company. Daenerys seemed impatient atop her horse. Qyburn also watched and Tyrion suddenly realised. Cersei didn’t attend. He knew the next loophole, before it was said.

“As I said, I am merely a mouthpiece of my Queen,” Qyburn said, “All I can do is relay to her what I’ve learned.”

“I would advise then to relay these things to your Queen promptly,” Tyrion remarked.

“Certainly, my Lord,” Qyburn nodded, as the mask on his face returned. “If I may note, as you spoke of goodwill. It would certainly help me in convincing my Queen, if you showed said goodwill and released Ser Jaime into our care. I am certain my Queen would see the goodwill and indeed, be willing to proceed further amicably.”

Of course she would. It was time to play the fool.

“I am sure that can be arranged,” Tyrion smiled, “As I said, my Queen has already consented to the exchange, and perhaps hearing the same from Ser Jaime’s mouth will be indeed a considerable aid in your efforts.”

Qyburn nodded, and Tyrion waived his hand. Two Dothraki led forth Ser Jaime’s horse, with his one hand tied to his swordbelt, his golden arm but hanging around his neck.”

“We had to confiscate his weapons, I am afraid,” Tyrion began a meaningless explanation, “However, he came to no harm, quite surprisingly, considering the predicament he’s caused. He’s been labelled a traitor, for the reasons I explained.”

Qyburn nodded. The Dothraki led Ser Jaime’s horse past the guards lining the path. Once crossed, they removed Ser Jaime from the horse.

“I wish you good fortune, Qyburn,” Tyrion smiled, “Please relay our well wishes to your Queen and congratulations, as well.”

Qyburn nodded, and Tyrion turned. As he walked past Jaime, they exchanged a nod, albeit Tyrion acutely felt Qyburn’s eyes on his back. The Dothraki helped him onto the horse, and he took the reins. Soon enough, they were past the guards and back with their own.

“Where is Jon?” Daenerys asked sternly.

“He will not come after this gathering,” Tyrion murmured, watching as Qyburn and Jaime entered the gate, followed by the guards.

“What do you mean, he will not come?!” Daenerys demanded. “You’ve just handed over Ser Jaime Lannister!”

“Yes, I did,” Tyrion turned toward the Queen. “There was no chance of surrender, I told you. There was also no chance that Qyburn will hand Jon over. He won’t convince Cersei, but Jaime will. Now we only need to wait for the bells to ring and the gates to open, and Jon walk out.”

*****

It was as if nothing has changed, Jaime thought, following the monstrous pack of meat that was the Mountain through the corridors. No, something has changed. He smelled even worse. And something else – he, Jaime Lannister. He’s changed. He felt like an alien here.

The guards opened the door to the solar, and the Mountain stepped aside. Jaime hesitantly entered.

“I hear your one hand was tied to your belt,” he’s heard behind him.

“It still is,” he answered as he turned. Gods, she was just as beautiful as on the day he left her. But she was something else, something that was just as alien as walking the corridors. She smirked, her usual grin, but Jaime didn’t find it admirable, didn’t find it the sign of her strength as he used to.

He suddenly felt relief washing over him. Ever since he’s been arrested, he kept imagining this moment. He kept wondering how he will feel, whether her resolution will waver, if his convictions will prove to be weaker than the effect her presence always had on him. In truth, her presence had no effect on him. She felt just as alien as everything else here. Her eyes wandered downward, her belly.

“I lost it,” she whispered. “I should’ve known, the witch has told me, but I thought… I thought this is different. But I lost it.”

Jaime merely nodded, the pain of losing a child didn’t come. He only felt relief, now also at the removal of what he saw as the greatest obstacle.

“You took your time to return,” Cersei remarked then, her voice once more strong and firm, “Will you try to make me believe that you were held prisoner, all this time?”

“I went to fight in the war against the dead,” He declared. “I’ve been fighting the dead, all this time.”

“What about Jon Snow being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and you serving him?”

“He is the commander of the allied forces,” Jaime answered, hoping that his guilt over what he perceived as a betrayal of the man who trusted him would not give him away, showing on his face now. “Whatever his name is, I follow the commands of my superior.”

“You aided my enemies,” Cersei hissed, “Daenerys and this, Jon Targaryen, while they united their claims against me.”

“Like I said,” Jaime hissed, “All I care about is Jon being the commander. You caused a disaster by snatching him away, we could’ve won the war! Now the dead are marching on your capitol.”

“So I hear,” Cersei remarked, “Release Jon Snow, or she’ll allow the dead into the city, then burn it with them. Two birds with one stone, that is how Tyrion called it to Qyburn. It seems to me she’d rather burn her… nephew. Her lover.”

“You wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice your lover, either” Jaime whispered. “She will not burn the city, release Jon so they can turn around and defeat the dead. You can even watch the entertainment.”

“And why would I do that?” She hissed, “So they can unite once more and claim MY throne, sack MY capitol? I don’t think so.”

“You clearly haven’t spoken to Jon,” Jaime remarked. “Try it, you’ll see what he’s about. He doesn’t care about the Iron Throne.”

“No, I hear he abdicated in favour of his aunt,” she smirked.

“She’s his heir,” Jaime pointed out. He didn’t like this conversation, was it always like this? Has she been always this cold, calculating her every word precisely to trap him in?

“And her intended,” she added. When he didn’t respond, she turned toward him once more. “Is it not true? He’s… quite important to her, that is what Tyrion said. I say he’s her lover. Targaryens, they’ve done what we’ve done for centuries.”

“They are not brother and sister,” Jaime said lowly, “Father married a cousin, Cersei. I could give you countless examples of why it’s perfectly normal.”

“It is,” she smiled her fake smile, and for once he could see through it so clearly, it made his stomach turn. “Except, it would unite their claims. Soon enough, little silver haired Targaryens would follow, they would establish the dynasty father worked so hard to end.”

“Have you even seen Jon?” Jaime asked, the knot rapidly growing in his stomach. How could she not know, Jon looked like a Stark, every bit a Stark… How could she not know if… He sighed, just as the she rang the bell, and the Mountain stormed into the Solar.

“Take Ser Jaime to his new quarters,” she said nonchalantly. Jaime followed the monster out of the solar, in sheer disbelief. How could they have gotten it so wrong?

*****

“How did it go?”

Tyrion looked to the side where the voice came from. Jon Connington walked out from the shadow of his tent, his face that of a genuinely worried old man. Indeed, he seems to have aged years since Jon’s disappearance.

“Not too good,” he responded lowly. “Or, exactly as I expected. I handed over my brother to the monster that is my sister. I didn’t get Jon in return. How is Lord Edric?”

“Recovering swiftly,” Griff stepped closer, “Furious, as ever.”

“So, you visit Lord Edric, in the Northern camp,” Tyrion remarked in return, raising an eyebrow. It hit the right mark, as realisation, confusion, then anger hit Connington’s face.

“I serve Jon Targaryen,” Griff declared, “So does the Golden Company. Not any Queens, only Rhaegar's son.”

“Personal fealty,” Tyrion remarked, “It’s a noble thing.”

“Is it?” Griff asked. “You call it fealty; I call it conviction.”

Tyrion merely nodded, wondering if the answer he’s been given fuelled his suspicions, or not.

“Your brother had it too, you know,” Griff said then, and Tyrion turned. Why he was surprised, he couldn’t tell. He knew it already. He never heard it said out loud.

“And when Queen Daenerys attacks the city, hoping to free Jon,” He asked sarcastically, “Where does your conviction leave you then?”

“I take orders from Jon,” Griff hissed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Griff leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Free Jon Targaryen, lord Hand. If Jon tells me to sack that fucking city, then I will raze it to the ground.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I hope you're enjoying the end-game, as much as I do 😜😄
> 
> (PS - if you’ve laughed at the first scene - that’s exactly what I hoped you’ll do!)


	67. Kings Landing II.

 

 

She’s pulled the furs tighter around herself as she sat behind her desk, watching the door. In seconds, she’ll face her brother – her lover.

These fools believed that she already has the bastard. Oh, they were quick to march all their armies against her capitol to free him. But Cersei was weary – she didn’t have the bastard. Something must’ve gotten wrong, perhaps the men got trapped behind the tens of thousands in the allied army. Perhaps it takes longer to go around this army and deliver the bastard.

At the same time, there has not been a single mention, not a demand about Sansa. That bitch. Qyburn confirmed, the Targaryen girl attended the parley, watching from the distance – she surely hasn’t been taken. But Sansa? Perhaps she was so insignificant to Daenerys, they didn’t even bother to mention. No, their focus has been on the bastard all along, and they handed her Jaime on a silver plate with an ask so courteous that it was impossible not to see, they indeed wanted to rid themselves of Jaime. They wanted Qyburn to take Jaime, though the fool admitted that he’s asked. Goodwill.

Cersei chuckled aloud at that. Since when does Tyrion have goodwill? Did he have goodwill when he shot father with a crossbow? When he made them vulnerable, and the vultures came and tried to tear them apart, and they took her babies, her children one after the other. No, he had no goodwill, and he didn’t hand Jaime over so willingly out of goodwill. He wanted something.

He wanted the bastard, that much was certain. He wanted her to interrogate Jaime, that much was certain, too. Did they really believe that he wrote the messages? If they did, if Daenerys found Jaime to be their traitor all the while losing her lover-wannabe nephew, she would likely want to feed Jaime to her dragon, and Tyrion would very likely want to remove Jaime from her presence, depriving her of the opportunity. Cersei had to conclude, they indeed believed Jaime to be the author of those letters.

And why did she come here with only one dragon? One dragon will be a much easier kill for the men, with Qyburn’s ballistae…

It amused Cersei, Tyrion thinking that Jaime was safer in the Red Keep than in the same camp as his ‘Queen’. On the other hand… what if he didn’t write the letters, Tyrion would surely know. Tyrion was cunning, he’s sent Jaime for a reason. She’ll find out that reason.

Just in that moment, the door opened, and Jaime walked in.

“I see you cleaned up,” Cersei noted, returning to the papers in front of her. She didn’t even read them. They were on this table for days. Perhaps, if Jaime bores her enough, she’ll even read them.

“That was kind of you, the bath and all,” Jaime nodded, taking the seat in front of the table that Cersei pointed at for him to sit.

“You are my brother,” she said as a matter of fact, “You cannot walk around like some dirty vigilante. Are them all so dirty?”

“We’ve been on the march for weeks, Cersei,” Jaime remarked annoyedly, “You’ve never marched with an army. You have no idea.”

“No, it was always your forte,” she leaned back in her chair as she spoke, “My fate was supposed to be beautiful and silent, preferably while I pop out a couple Baratheons. Though, father never intended for you to follow the commands of a Targaryen. Or a Stark bastard.”

“A Targaryen,” Jaime corrected, and she raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been proven, with evidence,” he explained.

“And you witnessed it,” she probed, “Qyburn says you did. Tyrion says so.”

“I witnessed it,” Jaime nodded, “As far as witnessing a Lords Council goes. He has a Targaryen sword, and his father’s diary, proving beyond doubt that Lyanna Stark was with child. There’s a maester’s diary confirming the marriage. And there’s a witness confirming of her death, and that Ned Stark took the babe she gave birth to and raised him as his bastard.”

“A witness,” Cersei remarked, “And diaries. Anyone can forge diaries; anyone can claim anything.”

“A credible witness,” Jaime countered, “Howland Reed. Even father spoke highly of Howland Reed, Cersei. Reed was there, he testified of his own attempts at convincing Stark to tell the boy who he really was.”

“And diaries,” Cersei repeated.

“They have been proven true,” Jaime acutely felt that he’s being interrogated for information. So far, it was harmless, he thought. “The maester’s diary was found in the Citadel Archives. Rhaegar’s… the handwriting has been matched to letters he definitely wrote.”

Cersei felt an acute need to laugh aloud. Instead, he watched her brother. How strange he seemed to her now. How little she felt.

“So it is true, then,” she concluded.

“It is.”

“I wanted to hear it from you,” She said then, “I don’t trust the bastard to claim to be someone else, and I don’t trust Tyrion or his… ‘Queen’ to prove it.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow.

“You spoke to Jon, then,” he remarked.

“Of course I did,” she smiled, “Following your arrival, I did. Not that I care much for rebels and usurpers. I would not have bothered otherwise, Jaime. You told me to.”

Jaime took a deep breath, his eyes firmly fixed on hers. A rush of cold wind swept through the room.

“Winter is coming,” Cersei cried out, “Didn’t Stark warn us enough? Turns out at least he didn’t lie about that.”

“This is not winter, Cersei,” Jaime whispered.

“Cold weather, strong winds, falling snow,” Cersei laughed nonchalantly, “It is called winter.”

“Not this,” Jaime shook his head, “This is THEM. THEY are coming, they bring the cold and the storm.”

Cersei’s face darkened. “What are they like?” she asked, and Jaime chuckled.

“You really want to know?”

“I’ve seen one rotting corpse that was easier to kill than a lamb would be,” she reasoned, “So yes, I really want to know why they are marching around in MY kingdom, still.”

“I’ve faced them at the wall, they climbed it as if it was but a few steps, and when they fell, they stood and climbed it again. I’ve seen them marching at the Last Hearth, mammoths, shadowcats… anything that could breath could be raised apparently. I’ve seen Jon taking two thousand to lead them away from me and mine at the Long Lake. He rode into death to keep us alive. That’s kingship, Cersei.”

“The dead, Jaime,” she raised her eyebrows, “I asked about the dead, not about the b … Rhaegar’s son.”

“I remember you really, really wanted to marry Rhaegar Targaryen. He could’ve been yours…” Jaime grinned, but a look from Cersei shut him up. “The dead. They razed Winterfell, then White Harbor, they even managed to find Greywater Watch and burn it to the ground. We had a chance, Cersei. At the Gods Eye, we had the chance, we annihilated their army there. Then your cronies snatched Jon away, and the Night King raised our own fallen to replace those he lost. THAT, is why they are marching on your capitol. You have yourself to thank for that.”

“Her armies stand between MY capitol and these dead men,” Cersei remarked kindly.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Jaime said, and once more she raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know of their plans. They arrested me before they discussed them. But I know this. Jon always deploys the same plans, it’s either ambush, or encirclement. They cannot ambush the army of the dead in an open field Cersei, they will encircle them.”

“Go on,” She whispered as he paused, watching keenly her face for reaction.

“I can only tell you what I would do, but Daenerys is no military commander. She’ll rely on what she’s learned, and Jon was damn good at this to teach her. I would move the armies aside, let the dead come for the city. It’s an even better bait then leaving the unsullied camp there, which Jon used to do, but Daenerys won’t… they’re hers. Perhaps she’ll leave the Lions there, as a present to me.”

“And?”

“They’ll go around. The dead will rush forth, to claim the city as their prize, and they’ll encircle them. Push them forward, like we did at the Gods Eye. At one point the dead will halt, but it’s easier to scale your walls than to turn against the armies. They’ll climb your city walls. They climbed THE WALL.”

“Yes, Tyrion claims it would be nothing for them,” she whispered before she caught herself. This was it, Jaime thought. He didn’t know, he couldn’t have known. But it was logical. This was how Tyrion got Cersei to listen.

“And then?”

“Then YOUR capitol will be overrun by dead men, killing the people you’re supposed to protect, and raising them. Then those will also kill more people. Your capitol will be lost in under an hour, I am sure of it.”

“Then?”

Jaime sighed.

“If you think the Red Keep would hold them back,” He began.

“I am no fool,” she hissed.

“Then perhaps you ought to release Jon,” Jaime remarked. “Because if he is out there, he’ll be the prize. They want him. The fuckers hunted him since the Wall, they want him.”

“Who would’ve thought that the heir to the Iron Throne is so… desirable,” Cersei chuckled.

“She’ll burn the city,” Jaime declared instead, “That’s how we kill them. Encircle them, trap them, then rain dragonfire on them. Very effective.”

“If it was so effective,” Cersei countered, “If Jon Snow was ‘so damn good’ at this, then they couldn’t have marched into MY kingdom. He’s allowed them to claim his own kingdom and allowed them to invade mine. I presume, he’s handed the kingdom to Sansa Stark after they overrun it. How pitiful.”

Jaime merely sighed. “They raise the fallen, Cersei. You cannot stop something like that by fighting it back. Every single man you lose is meat for their army, Jon used to call it that. You lose one, they gain one. I’ve seen it at the Gods Eye. They fall, then open their ice blue eyes and rise, and they attack those they fought beside. The Night King has to be killed, he’s the one who raises them. Once he’s killed, they’ll all be killed. That’s at least what I’ve been told. Only Jon can kill the Night King.”

“That sounds rather…”

“It’s his blood,” Jaime interrupted, by now quite impatient. “Ice and Fire. Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. There’s a prophecy about it, the son of Ice and fire shall be the prince that was promised, who’ll return and forge Lightbringer, the sword to defeat the dead… I don’t know the prophecy, but do you remember? Rhaegar, he was into prophecies and the like. And he chose to elope with Lyanna Stark, while his uncle was maester at Castle Black. My take on it is, Rhaegar knew of the threat, believed the prophecy.”

“Pumped a boy into Lyanna,” Cersei finished the line, after her own fashion.

“This is serious, Cersei,” Jaime hissed.

“It still sounds like a bad joke,” she countered. “An excuse to march fifty thousand against me. A lovely tale for the people to chatter about, so they warm to Daenerys Targaryen. Propaganda.”

“You’ve seen the dead Ser Davos brought…”

“I did,” she stood, walking toward the balcony. She looked to the North-east, where the armies camped, fires shined against the violet shades of the sky. “I also see the fifty thousand outside my gates. I say, it’s an excuse. The whole of the North, the Neck, the Riverlands, all of it were at your disposal to defeat the dead, yet you’ve ran and ran, straight to MY capitol, all the way…” She turned, once more facing Jaime. “Making sure that Daenerys Targaryen can use them against me.”

“Perhaps that was her plan,” Jaime whispered, “Perhaps that was Jon’s plan. What does it matter?” He also stood, walking to Cersei as he spoke. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fifty thousand and the dragon and the dead, who knows how many. They are all coming for you. Listen to me.”

His one arm grabbed her shoulder. “There’s a passage out to the beach, straight from the keep. There are dinghies there, we shall go. Release Jon, open the gates, and go. Let them deal with the dead, whether they used it against you or not, they’ll have to deal with them. You and I can start anew.”

Her eyes found his. Was he speaking true? A spark in her heart warmed, burning to a sudden flame. He was too close. He came too close.

“Why would I trust you?” She asked, “And why would I give up what is MINE, what we fought for all our lives, father fought for…”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Jaime repeated desperately. “Listen to me. Either they will raze the city, or the dead will raze the city, and they won’t stop in front of the Red Keep. They’ll either barricade you in until you surrender, or they burn it to the ground with you in it. They don’t care, it’s all the same to them. Escape with me. You can’t win this.”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Cersei, you can’t win this,” Jaime repeated, “You fought hard, father would be proud of you. But this isn’t a fight you can win.”

She raised her head once more, her watery eyes meeting his. For a moment she just stood. Then suddenly, she turned her back to him.

“No,” she hissed. “We are prepared, we have thousands of fresh troops from the Reach. We can hold the city.”

“Not against this,” Jaime argued, stepping beside her on the balcony. “All it takes is one dead man brought inside the walls, I’ve seen it… That’s how they got Greywater Watch!”

She raised her head high resolutely as she listened, and Jaime felt it already; the defeat. He won’t convince her. Not today.

“See reason, Cersei,” He said softly. One last try. “Open the gates, let Jon Targaryen go. They’ll turn and fight the dead, for Jon would never, NEVER allow them near this city, near innocent people…”

She laughed aloud.

“Open the gates, allow traitors and usurpers into my capitol,” She hissed as she turned toward him once more. “Do you think me mad?!”

“No,” Jaime whispered, “I think you to be the woman I love. I don’t want you to die here, like this. I don’t want you to become one of THEM. I want you to live, with me.”

“Imagine, Cersei,” Jaime tried to smile as he spoke, “For once in our lives, we would be free, no one would scorn us, no one would tell us what we should do… in Pentos we…”

“Pentos!” She rushed away from him, back to her desk and dumped herself into her chair.

“Yes, Pentos,” Jaime repeated, “Only until Tyrion convinces Daenerys to allow our return.”

“He would,” she looked at him questioningly.

“I have his word,” Jaime nodded.

She took a deep breath and rang the bell. The Mountain immediately stepped in, Jaime still watching her.

“That is all, brother,” she declared, as if the conversation never happened. Jaime wanted to speak but found that no words came. He rushed out of the solar, the Mountain closing the door behind them.

Cersei stared at the door, after them. This was it, then. This was Tyrion’s plan.

*****

“I do not appreciate the threat you made against me, your grace.” Sansa stood and spoke firmly, despite the acute feeling of having entered a dragon’s cave with nothing to protect her, that kept nagging in her mind.

“And yet, here you are,” Daenerys remarked coldly, “Your grace.”

“And yet, here I am,” Sansa repeated. She will not be viewed as weak, for taking the initiative. “At least one of us has to communicate. We are in the same camp. You are not an allied commander, your grace.”

She sighed. Bickering won’t get her anywhere now. “I came to advise you against attacking the city. Lord Tyrion is right, as soon as you do, Jon will be executed. Of course, you would gain the Iron Throne, and you would become the rightful claimant,” Daenerys’ shot a furious look at her at the remark, “But it would be for nothing, when the dead arrive. We would all die.”

“And again, here’s something we can see eye to eye about,” Daenerys gave her one of those smiles, that made her wonder what ever Jon could see in this woman. Forced, it was so plainly forced. “But tell me, Your Grace, how do you intend to get Jon back? Because I see no other way.”

“You would kill him,” Sansa stated once more.

“No, Cersei would kill him,” Daenerys corrected, “That is, if we give her enough time to do it. I intend to give her no time at all, your grace. I will burn the Red Keep to the ground before she even sees it coming.”

Sansa swallowed.

“The black cells are under the Red Keep,” She remarked.

Daenerys gave her a knowing look. “Do you have any other suggestion, your grace?”

“In fact, I do,” Sansa said, “Do nothing.”

At that, Daenerys gave her another look – that of disbelief. “Do nothing?”

“Yes, sometimes things work themselves out,” Sansa said, trying to soften her tone enough to end the coldness that wanted to make her run away, but not before she slapped Jon’s aunt. Lover. Heir.

“And how do you intend for things to work themselves out, your grace?” Daenerys asked.

“The dead will arrive, we know it,” Sansa began, “Give them a clear path toward the city. Cersei will panic. We only need to ensure that she knows, only Jon can end it. She’ll want to end it before they reach her, she’ll release him.”

“And you know this, how?”

“Because I know that Cersei is a coward,” Sansa whispered, before she took a deep breath, raising her voice to that firm, queenly tone once more. “I lived with her. When Stannis Baratheon attacked the city, she drank and drank while the battle raged outside, out of fear. She feared they will storm the Red Keep. She kept talking about offering herself, that she would… but it was Stannis, she said she would have better luck seducing his horse. Then she took her son and left. Her maids kept whispering that she went to escape.”

Dany chuckled at that. “You lived with her,” she said, considerably softer. “It must’ve been hard for you. But you may have knowledge that could help me now. Help me get Jon back.”

“I am telling you what I know,” Sansa argued, “She is a bully, who reigns through fear. She intimidates people, abuses people. Until one comes who can gain the upper hand, then she cowers. I hear she walked through the streets naked, the people threw shit at her. That is why she blew up the Sept of Baelor, I am sure of it. She blew them up, those who made her walk the streets naked. And Margaery, because she was Queen, and the people loved her. She was good.”

“Cersei is vengeful and vain,” Sansa continued, “A vain, aging woman, who cannot let go of being Queen. She will not surrender; she will not give you Jon because you asked. She will try to bully you if you attack, to hurt you. She enjoys hurting people, playing with people. For her, Jon is only a tool, to hurt you, and I. As long as she has anything to hurt you and break you with, she won’t back down. She has nothing with what she could intimidate the dead, or hurt them, break them. She’ll back down when they come.”

“I doubt Jon would agree with that plan,” Dany said, more to herself seemingly, “Jon would want us to attack, now. He wouldn’t sit and wait.”

“Jon wouldn’t agree to either plans,” Sansa countered, “He would march away from the city and fight, and rather risk himself and the armies than allow the dead near the city. But we don’t have Jon here, he’s in the city, captive, at Cersei’s mercy.”

“He would sacrifice himself,” Dany said then, more to herself.

“He would,” Sansa repeated in agreement, “And perhaps he will try. But Jon knows we need him to defeat the Night King. Cersei won’t give Jon to us, unless she understands the threat. Sees with her own eyes that she can’t fight it.”

“And once she backed down,” Daenerys asked sternly, “What then? Hundreds of thousands of people will be dead, or worse. You counsel me to sacrifice them.”

“I counsel you to no such thing,” Sansa argued. “It’s not an attack we would allow. It’s a clear path. That is not the same.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Daenerys stood, indicating that Sansa’s audience was over.

“Will you listen?” She asked.

“Listen to you,” Daenerys remarked. “I will consider. But an attack on the Red Keep now can secure us Jon’s freedom before the dead arrive and we can fight them.”

Sansa turned and walked toward the entrance. But no, the nagging voice now said something else. Something that wanted out.

“If you attack the city,” She turned back toward Daenerys as she began, “And Jon dies, you may not kill him with your own hands, but you will be his killer regardless.”

Dany stood; her face overtaken by fury.

“That would work for you,” Sansa added coldly, “Everyone knows that he is the heir, not you. If you attack and he dies, who’ll be the rightful heir then? You.”

“Are you accusing me, your grace,” Dany scoffed, “You are in no position to accuse me. Or fight me.”

Sansa allowed herself a slight smile at hearing that. “Perhaps not,” she said, “But look around you, your grace. How many Westerosi would fight for you?”

The slight startle that ran across Dany’s face assured her to speak, to drive home the message that wanted out for so long, no matter how she tried to push it aside. “Truth is, you are a foreigner, and no matter the circumstances, you would usurp the rightful heir. Unless he dies, that would be convenient for you.”

“Is that how you see me,” Dany raised her head high as she spoke, “How you all see me, after all this time.”

“Let me ask you something instead,” Sansa responded, “Do you know why Ser Davos has no fingers on one hand?”

The confused look on Dany’s face answered clearer than any words could’ve.

“Lord Stannis held Storm’s End during the rebellion, they were starving. Ser Davos was a smuggler, not a knight. Smuggled onions to the starving city, after they ate all the cats and the dogs… After the war, Stannis knighted him. And chopped off his fingers for the crime of smuggling. The good deeds never erase the bad, your grace.”

“Perhaps then,” Dany spoke calmly, “The same is true to you, your grace.”

“I am not the one claiming someone else’s birthright,” Sansa declared fiercely, “all too willing to risk the life of the one whose birthright I want to be my own.”

“But you are,” Dany smirked, “You call yourself Queen. The birthright you speak of, is to the Seven Kingdoms. All seven of them.”

“Jon named me Queen,” Sansa argued.

“Yes, he did,” Dany faked a sigh, “Right after he revealed himself to be the heir AND relinquished his birthright. To me.”

“And you gave your word to honour his,” Sansa once more felt the nagging urge to run. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut, after all this time?

“I did,” Dany declared, “And you gave yours to keep the peace.”

“I have kept the peace,” Sansa hissed, “It is not me eagerly planning an attack that will kill him.”

“I am planning to save him!” Dany raised her voice, boiling blood taking over, before she swallowed.

“The coin has two sides,” she said, calmly, watching as her hand shook in anger as she tried to control herself. “If anything happens to Jon, my promise to him could mean just as little as yours.”

Sansa took a step forward. For a short moment, she really wanted to give in to the urge and draw Longclaw, no matter how many unsullied, Dothraki and whatnot surrounded this tent. But she knew better. She turned and stormed out of the tent.

*****

She tried her best to walk at an even pace, her four guards around her. At any moment, she told herself. At any moment, she may give the order, and the four crannogmen around her will mean nothing against the thousands who’ll come for her.

“Your grace,” She heard behind her, and turned. No, jumped.

Tyrion startled at seeing the expression on her face, so much so that he inadvertently took a step back.

“I shall come to you,” he said lowly, “To talk.”

She swiftly nodded and moved. As she walked, she felt the watching eyes of the men fixed on her, whenever she looked up, she saw their faces, long haired, broad shouldered men, and men in leathers. And Varys. She rushed past Varys, who gave him a bored-looking nod. She didn’t bother to return it.

She didn’t stop, not until she reached her own tent. Her mind kept listing the most elaborate of curses she could come up with, ever since she crossed into the northern camp. Well done, she told herself. Now, if the alliance broke here today, she would only have herself to blame. Somewhere in her, she felt that it had to be said. She had to know what her actions would cause, what it would bring about.

She was so sensitive to what people thought about her, of course she was. How many times could she have been told, she’s merely a usurper, a foreign invader? Howland told Sansa the truth he’s given to the Dragon Queen, his version of the truth as he saw it. Told her that Ser Davos did the same. Sansa knew, because Arya chanted it enough times, Arya believed it, Daenerys was keen to win over the people. To do good, not for the sake of good, as Arya saw it, but for the sake of being seen doing good.

To be accepted.

She may be willing to raze the Red Keep, and risk Jon’s life. Sansa hoped that at least she could make her think about what consequences that would bring. Not the war with the North, that she all but confirmed, no. Thee consequence of her being the executioner of the one whose right she claimed.

The war with the North… Perhaps Edric Snow was right. They had to grow strong, and quickly, they needed allies. Not only to feed their people, but also to fight. They needed to get ready. They were indeed the prey to wannabe conquerors, she swallowed as she admitted to herself.

She hoped then that Ser Davos and Sam will succeed. She hoped that she understood what their success meant.

She entered, only to find Lord Reed still in the chair, eyes all white staring at the canopy above.

*****

Tyrion’s way took him to the other direction. Judging by Sansa’s face, he took a deep breath as he continued on his way, trying his best to prepare himself. He entered the tent without a pause. There would be no point to ponder whether this was a good idea.

The Queen sat by the small folding table, her two hands massaging her temples as she’s rested on her elbows. She merely glanced at his direction, sitting up straight with a sigh.

“Have you also come to share with me your knowledge of Cersei?” She asked in a tired voice.

“Would I bother you with that, your grace,” Tyrion smiled, “A lifetime wouldn’t be enough for that, and what a boring life that would be.”

She didn’t smile. “So, you came to call me a killer,” she hissed.

“Has the Queen in the North called you a killer,” Tyrion asked with genuine curiosity, somewhat in wonder at just how much courage Sansa gained over the years since they parted ways. “Who have you killed?”

“No one, yet,” She said, finally his nonchalance taking effect, her voice began to soften, the blush on her cheeks began to fade. “But the Queen in the North is adamant, if I attacked, I would kill Jon. She’s convinced that is my aim.”

Now Tyrion was truly surprised, at the amount of courage Sansa could muster. “She said that.”

“She did,” Dany sighed, “in no uncertain terms, she called me a killer.”

“Hmmm,” Tyrion took to the second chair, and offered himself a cup of wine. “Perhaps there is a way,” he remarked, “To get Jon back, without an attack.”

Dany sat back in her chair, in sheer disbelief. Judging by her face, she wasn’t exactly receptive of any further drilling now, Tyrion understood. But he had to try.

“Lay the city under siege,” he said, “And forgive me for indulging you with my former experiences, I can perceive that Queen Sansa already bored you with some of them. But perhaps not this one.”

“Before Stannis arrived,” Daenerys gave an exaggerated sigh at that. Sansa spoke about this, Tyrion concluded swiftly, he really needs to speak to Sansa now. “Before Stannis arrived, the Reach withdrew supplies from the city. Whatever came in wasn’t near enough to supply it. The smallfolk rebelled. Has Queen Sansa told you?”

She merely shook her head. “I am surprised,” Tyrion smiled, before he gulped from the cup, “For she would remember. She almost got raped on the streets, the Hound killed half a dozen, grabbing them off her one by one.”

“When was this, again?” Dany asked, by now clearly invested in paying attention.

“A very long time ago, she was perhaps fourteen then, perhaps not even,” Tyrion explained as he poured some more wine into his cup. “Truth be told, Cersei, Joffrey… their guards dragged them into the Red Keep, but they left poor Sansa at the mercy of the rebels. You lived with the Dothraki; I am sure you’ve seen what they do whenever they sack a city. Kings Landing was being sacked from the inside. And Joffrey was quite keen to let Sansa experience it all in its gore. In the end, no harm came to her thanks to Clegane, but the fright.”

“Jon was right,” Dany whispered then, to Tyrion’s surprise.

“About what?”

“She could’ve never written those letters,” she said lowly, “Not after what your family did to her. She could’ve never aided your sister.”

“No, she could never,” Tyrion nodded, “But that is not why I am telling you. That was a matter of a moon’s turn, and we’ve had trade. Lay the city under siege. There’s no sign of the dead, the scouts went almost as far as the plain at the Gods Eye, there’s no sign of them. We have the time.”

“Or they are hiding in the woods,” She remarked.

“Or that,” Tyrion nodded, “But we can always turn and fight, we’ll be ready. I don’t think at all it would hurt our chances if they showed up. Let Cersei see them, perhaps then she’ll find her senses.”

Daenerys chuckled at hearing that, so Tyrion gave her a questioning look.

“That is exactly what the Queen in the North counselled me to do,” she said bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tension is getting to people... 😄  
> If you worry for Jaime's "state of mind" - the next chapter starts with him!
> 
> PS - I will bring in a character! I think 2 chapters from now, I think you'll like it.
> 
> And if you'd like to, let me know in the comments who else you think I should've "brought back" or added (because they didn't appear in the show) etc. I may not comment on all suggestions (because I am adding characters and don't want to spoil) but I'm really curious. Lady Stoneheart I knew a lot of people wanted in the show. JonCon/Griff was a must for me, so was Howland Reed. Who else?
> 
> (I had a PS2 here, if you’ve read.. doesn’t apply anymore because man I had a fabulous OTHER idea hahah)


	68. Kings Landing III.

Jaime walked the corridors, looking for a clue. A notion, a feeling, that in fact he returned home. That he was the man who left these halls, and he could be the same man as he returned, it was all nothing but a phase. He’ll have to find it in him.

He’ll have to, because if he doesn’t, he’ll never convince Cersei. He could see that now – the distance between them caused the same effect on Cersei that it caused on him. Oh, she tried, and for a moment, she was even there, almost – her eyes teared up, for a moment she’s considered it. A new life, being free, together – no matter how that ‘freedom’ sounded like a golden cage in the seventh of hells to Jaime now. But in the end, she dropped the mask of the woman in love, if she’s even really put it on. He wanted to ask her, as she dismissed him – does she even love him still. But it wouldn’t have helped his cause.

For Jaime, freedom was something else. Freedom was allowing himself to make his own decision, choose his own principles and based on those principles, decide where his loyalties lied. They didn’t lie with Daenerys, of course not. Were there a dozen more Targaryens and a dozen more dragons, there’d be a dozen more of Daenerys riding them into battle. Jaime didn’t see the valour in it, high up in the sky on the back of a fire breathing monstrosity, anyone could be brave. Anyone could conquer cities, though if he was honest with himself, he knew enough to know, she didn’t ride her dragons into battle to overturn the slave cities in Essos. She also didn’t overturn them all. Yunkai, Astapor – she’s amassed her armies. Vaes Dothrak – she united the Khalasars, perhaps the only force not known how to defeat in Westeros. There was logic in it, at least Jaime saw one. Meereen? Perhaps it was to gain a vital port, away from cities like Braavos, the Iron Bank and its influence and ties to just about every sellsword company that would eagerly come to its defense, being their most lucrative employment source. Pentos, Volantis, Lys, Thyrosh, Norvos… No, she didn’t conquer any of them. She had no use of the bedslaves of Lys in a conquest – though, had she known Westerosi, she’d perhaps known that just as much politics are concluded in bed as there are on battlefields. For the rest, Jaime really couldn’t tell. He didn’t ponder on it long enough, because his loyalty was never Daenerys Targaryen’s to claim. Not after he’s seen what the black dragon could do.

He didn’t lie when he told Cersei about the Long Lake. That’s kingship, Cersei – take note. How many times did Jaime wonder about it? The boy born as the result of war, a secret marriage, raised as a bastard to know nothing, want nothing in life. Rose to be Lord Commander of the Nights Watch at the age of what? Twenty? Twenty-two, at most. That couldn’t have been because he was viewed as Ned Stark’s bastard – how many third and fourth sons have joined the Watch with a true name and ties to their families, and the web of ties of those families? The men of the Watch relinquish family ties, by oath. But Jaime knew, everyone knew really, highborn lordlings joining the watch never did – they sent their letters and they received their replies, and if rumours were true, they rode out to that shithole of a town nearby, to the brothel. To sire no children, what a sham.

But Jaime was certain, Jon Snow didn’t visit dirty northern brothels during the nights, no he led raids beyond the wall, avenged his Lord Commander, killed mutineers, infested wildling camps, even climbed the wall with them. And he saved them, those that he could, at Hardhome. He got a knife in the heart for it, though Jaime found the story hard to believe, even after having seen Beric Dondarrion at Winterfell.

Even when Jon relinquished all of that, everything he accomplished, he only went on and accomplished more, in even less the time. Defeated the Boltons, became King in the North – as a bastard, without the true name it would’ve required, because the people of the North willed it. He united them with wildlings, and then… He also united them with wolves, lions, and Daenerys Targaryen. While he did that, he knew. He knew he was the heir, and not once did he move to claim that inheritance. That is conviction. That is knowing one’s duty. That is true kingship.

Jaime knew well where his own loyalties lied. Before the first sight of Cersei, he worried about it, surely, what if it was only because of distance, only because of what all he’s learned about her, the thirst for vengeance, the cruelty that she possessed? But the first thing she said erased any notion in him of an honest reconciliation between them. She’s lost the child, the only thing she could’ve used to gain a hold on him, because he knew, he would’ve done anything for the child. Yet the loss of it, that was relief. He was free.

Tyrion must’ve had an exaggerated idea of his capabilities, tasking him to convince Cersei. But Tyrion also tried to make something out of the situation he’s been handed, Jaime knew. That he would’ve been fed to the dragon, was of no doubt in his mind, and thus the exchange seemed almost like mercy. A mission, a task to prove himself. Not to Daenerys, his accuser, but to Jon, who’s freedom he was sent to secure.

But Jon was not here. Jaime was certain of it. Between Cersei’s comment about silver-haired Targaryens, as Jon’s offsprings, and her claim to have spoken to Jon, Jaime still had hope. Perhaps it was exactly that, Cersei not bothering to face Jon once he’s been brought to her. But that wasn’t Cersei. No, she would face him immediately, to drive home her victory, to torment him. She would come up with elaborate ideas of how to torment him. Having Jon in her grasp and not even confronting him was not like Cersei at all.

Then she claimed that she spoke to him. She claimed that Jon declared himself to be Rhaegar’s son and she didn’t believe him. Jaime knew better, as he sat there in front of Cersei watching her face, the flicker of doubt rushing through her features, wondering if he believed her. No, he didn’t. Jon would’ve told her about the dead, he would’ve said whatever he could about them to convince her that the threat is real. But of being a Targaryen, Rhaegar’s son and heir?

Jaime has never heard Jon using the name to his advantage. The only one time he knew of it was the parley with the Golden Company, the show they’ve put up… and it was all calculated to the last detail. No, Jon would’ve dismissed his heritage as insignificance, he would’ve told Cersei that it doesn’t matter, for the dead are coming… He would’ve never tried to convince Cersei of who he was. And thus, Jaime was certain – Cersei has never spoken to Jon. She didn’t, because Jon was not here.

This caused a serious problem to Jaime. The dead may come, but there’s no “magical solution” to avoid the slaughter of the city. There’s no way to release Jon, and he’ll fight them, he’ll beat the Night King so they all can live with themselves for a little longer until one of them annihilates the other party, that party almost certainly being Cersei. Jaime couldn’t appeal to her this way, surrendering the city sounded the most unreasonable ask.

Which is why he had to find it in him – some kind of affection, something that would cause him to ring true when he tells her, he loves her. When he sees her next time, and tries to convince her to escape with him, it has to come from a man who loves her.

Cersei craved love – all of them did. Tywin Lannister had no love to give, no matter how he felt. Children were tools for him, nothing more, and if they looked the part and behaved, he could use them well. Tyrion never looked the part, so Tywin never even tried to make use of him. No, perhaps that one time when he offered Tyrion to Elia Martell. That was taken as an insult by the Princess of Dorne, and Jaime was almost certain that it was meant to be just that. What was a Prince of Dorne compared to crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen? The Princess Dorella asked for Cersei’s hand, for sure, for her eldest son and heir, Doran. Or was it Quentyn? Oberyn? Jaime couldn’t tell, she had three sons after all. It must’ve been Quentyn or Doran – everyone knew that Dorella also tried a double-arrangement with Hightower for Elia and Oberyn. That fell through, and her attempts with Lannister after that also fell through, because she took the insult for what it was. Tywin rebuked her claiming Cersei was Rhaegar’s intended, at a time when King Aerys had no other offspring. No surprise, he sired them by raping his wife night after night – Jaime spent enough time guarding the door listening to her screams to know it. Later, much later came Viserys, and then Daenerys – but by then, Aerys has been overthrown.

What a funny joke it must’ve been on Tywin Lannister when Aerys ended Cersei’s betrothal, right at the same time he demanded that Jaime joined the Kingsguard – thus depriving Tywin of his eldest son and heir at the same time as the prospect of her daughter being mother of future Kings and Queens, and left him with Tyrion to further the Lannister name, the legacy Tywin was so obsessed with. Aerys may not have known, but he really drove that home when he betrothed Rhaegar to no other than Elia – a one-time rebuked prospect for Jaime. He was certain, Princess Dorella laughed at mighty Tywin while she agreed to the royal match. It wasn’t surprising – the Martells had the blood. From Nymeria through Daeron I’s double-pact, that resulted in Prince Maron of Dorne also agreed to marry a Targaryen – Daenerys Targaryen’s namesake. Targaryens were keen to preserve their bloodline, a Martell match made much more sense than a Lannister one.

All this of course mattered precious little to Jaime now. He amused himself at the memories of Tywin’s failures at furthering the legacy, dismissing the Martells. Of course in the end Elia was murdered – on Tywin’s orders, no doubt – and Cersei did become Queen. And here he was, because Cersei became Queen, because Tywin was so obsessed with legacy, power, the Iron Throne. If he could’ve, he would’ve claimed it for himself – he certainly rebuked Jaime for not doing so, quite memorably.

Where did this all leave him? Exactly nowhere. It didn’t matter, Daenerys Targaryen, sister of Rhaegar – unwed, Jaime mused – was outside the city walls, demanding the release of her nephew and Rhaegar’s son, Jon – once more Jaime amused himself at what he perceived to be Rhaegar’s version of the obsession he’s known in Tywin, the naming of all his sons Aegon. What if both of them lived? Or did he expect his eldest son to die? Jaime couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was a mistake, of a woman weakened by childbirth fever, naming the child Aegon. Perhaps it was her hope in her deathbed, that the name of the Conqueror will one day aid her son to reclaim what the father lost.

All these musings, however, didn’t help Jaime at all. He had to focus. He had to find it in him, he had to convince Cersei. His only chance was to convince Cersei, they could be free, to spark in her the love they had once more, enough for her to see it as an option to survive. Live another day, even if she does so with the usual thirst for vengeance, her and her plans to return and overthrow Daenerys, or Jon, or both if they married like Tyrion expected them to. If he could only rekindle that fire they nourished for so long in secret, paired with the threat that loomed closer by each day, then perhaps Cersei would relent.

Jaime didn’t want the city burn, razed, overran by dead men – Not after spending his life scorned to be the King slayer, saving the same city, the same people and their mothers and fathers from the wrath of the Mad King. All of that would be futile if Cersei didn’t relent. She had to relent. Jaime had to succeed; he had no other choice.

*****

Jon watched intently, if not frustratingly, as the pale hands washed the forehead with a piece of linen. She handled the body so gently, even after seeing it multiple times, it astonished him. She already washed the hair, cleaned the wound on the forearm. Startled at the long deep scar on the thigh.

She even undressed it from its smallclothes and washed them, not once fazing at the naked man lying in front of her. There wasn’t an inch on the body that she didn’t carefully, gently wipe the dirt off, and the mud, the sweat of the battle.

She cleaned all them clothes too. She studied long the stitching of the shirt, the quilting of the coat. In her eyes shone pride, she recognised the intricate work just like Jon would, among thousands of works by the best seamstresses of this world.

Jon was waiting. He tried, Ghost kept nudging her and whining, until she put her finger in front of her mouth – silence, she insisted. Yes, they needed to be silent, Jon understood, but they also needed to leave. Whether the body was clean as a lord on his nameday or covered in whatever could stick to it from weeks of the march, he couldn’t care less.

At one point, when it became clear that she was hard set on cleansing the body, Ghost even left, with Silver by his side, as always. Jon watched the silver-grey direwolf, for he could feel things. Ghost could feel things, and sure enough, the wolf was female. That warmed Jon’s – Ghost’s – heart, but they had no time for this. Happiness had to wait for all of them, for there was no chance of happiness while they lingered in the land of the dead. They left to see, but the dinghies were firmly there. Thoyne had no use of them, so he simply left them. Who would take them? Thoyne must’ve been certain that Jon was dead. By wolves. Thoyne knew nothing of him, Jon concluded.

They could all leave in them two dinghies. One tied to the other. Perhaps Lady Catelyn wasn’t the best suited to row, perhaps wolves could – somehow – learn to row. It’s not like they didn’t manage thus far, they even moved the body which Jon previously thought impossible. But they surely couldn’t drag the body south on land, so they had to take the opportunity that the dinghies represented, before storm or winds blew them out of the tiny bay at the black capes’ camp suite.

Now, he waited. The body was indeed clean as a lord on his nameday, so there was nothing more to it but to dress it, he knew. Lady Catelyn lingered, leisurely washing the forehead though. Finally, he lost his patience.

Ghost moved forth, nudging at the pile of clothing. The response was a faint smile on the woman’s face, and finally, a nod. The ritual to dress the body began. Jon couldn’t help but feel, it seemed like the dressing of a body for burial. But it wasn’t dead! He kept reminding himself, surely, she must feel it too.

She was almost done, as the breeze hit them. It was sudden, causing the flames of the fire to dance around. She jumped. She knew what that would be, Jon thought, hoping they both were wrong in the assumption they made.

Ghost nagged at the capes, and she wrapped the body. Finally, she’s put out the fire, and to his dread, Ghost’s visible breathing began to cloud the air in front of him, and all the wolves. Even her. They had to move, now, or they’ll never make it out of here alive.

*****

Tyrion walked leisurely past the countless tents. Northmen, Wolves… He should’ve felt a level of fear, he reminded himself, but what was it worth? If they meant to end him, nothing would save him anyways. There was no point to bring guards, and who would he have brought? He’s coming to treat with their Queen, and it’s not like he’s doing it with the blessing of his own.

The guards stepped aside as he reached the royal tent. She was alone, sitting by the table – to Tyrion’s amusement, in the exact same position he found Daenerys in earlier.

“Your Grace,” he nodded, and she looked up with a sigh. If they only knew how similar they were, Tyrion thought.

“Have you come to advise me against threatening your Queen?” She asked, and at that Tyrion had to laugh. They were quite similar, indeed.

“Why would I do that?” He asked nonchalantly, “When you’re doing such an amicable job at it. No, I’ve not come to ask you to stop, albeit perhaps it’d be advisable, if you mean to see Jon released. Being fed to the dragon would definitely prevent you from doing that.”

“IF,” Sansa pointed out, “If Jon gets released, which you and I both know Cersei will never consent to. Not unless that’s the only means for her to survive.”

Tyrion nodded, taking the chair Sansa pointed at. Just as before, he reached for the jug and a cup, and helped himself to the wine. It was watered, just as the wine he drank before, but still, it was better than nothing.

“You gave her sound advice,” he said then, and Sansa leaned back in her chair, visibly amused at the compliment. “Truly, you did. I intended to advise her of the same, and the two of us perhaps could talk some sense into her.”

“Or not,” she remarked, “If Jon was here, she’d listen to him. Jon is not here, and forgive me for pointing out but she seems rather reluctant to listen to her advisors.”

“She’s in love with Jon,” Tyrion declared then, for what reason, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps he shouldn’t have either, but judging by Sansa’s face, it was nothing new. “Just as you are.”

At that she looked away, biting on her lower lip. So it was true, Tyrion remarked to himself.

“Yet, she would never admit it,” he added, “I believe she isn’t even able to realise it herself. She’s desperate, Sansa – Your Grace, apologies. She’s desperate to get back her only family, the man she loves. She’s not of the patient kind.”

“So, she’ll burn the Red Keep instead,” Sansa hissed.

“Not if we keep counselling her otherwise,” Tyrion countered, “But we have to go about it smartly. We cannot antagonise her; you cannot antagonise her. She’ll listen to reason; she doesn’t want to lose Jon.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow.

“Believe me,” Tyrion leaned closer to lend emphasis to his words, “I know what it looks like, but she doesn’t want Jon to die. She wants Jon to live, with her.”

“She wants to marry him,” Sansa whispered.

“She’s not told me thus,” Tyrion smiled, “But that is what I believe she intends, from the way she pursues Jon. And, from my perspective, because I am her advisor of politics, it would be the best political move. Unite House Targaryen and their claims.”

“House Targaryen would die,” Sansa remarked coldly.

“Perhaps,” Tyrion nodded, “Perhaps not. She claims she cannot… But Targaryen kings had mistresses before, legitimised bastards… like Daemon Blackfyre. Rhaegar Targaryen had two wives even.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side, listening, in her eyes a sarcastic spark. “You expect Jon of all men to have mistresses and live in polygamy.”

“Jon is the future of House Targaryen,” Tyrion remarked.

“And the heir, which is why I don’t understand why YOUR Queen holds on to this notion of conquest for herself,” Sansa hissed. “She doesn’t have the right, and she doesn’t have the means to establish the dynasty.”

“She has the means to complete the conquest, though,” Tyrion argued, and Sansa stood.

“I used to think that you are the smartest man I know,” she said, her voice full of the sarcasm that he saw overtaking her face before.

“And who dared to surpass me in that regard?” He asked, and she raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t amused.

“Truth now,” she said instead, “She has the Dothraki, how many? Twenty-two, perhaps twenty-three thousand. She has the unsullied, no more than six thousand. She has one dragon. It’s enough against Cersei, I give you that.”

“There’s the Golden Company,” Tyrion began.

“Will they fight for her?” She allowed herself a slight smile as she asked, “I hear Griff knelt in front of Jon, handed the horn to Jon. He hails Jon.”

“And Jon supports Daenerys,” Tyrion concluded.

“Who would raze the Red Keep to get to the Throne, even if Jon dies alongside Cersei with it,” Sansa countered. “And once Jon is dead, who will the Company fight for? The woman who killed him? Who claimed his birthright in return for the safety of his people?”

Tyrion sighed at that. “You spoke to Connington,” he whispered.

“It’s not a coincidence, Lord Hand,” Sansa remarked, “That Lord Reed chose to target the Company, retrieve Blackfyre for Jon. Jon Connington is only loyal to Rhaegar’s brood. Now, if the one he’s loyal to would perish thanks to YOUR Queen, who do you think he’d turn against to avenge?”

“Has he told you thus,” Tyrion asked, somewhat surprised.

“No, he has not,” Sansa said. It was true, for she didn’t even speak to Connington. She didn’t bother to share that, though.

“And I presume the North in that case would ally itself with the Company,” Tyrion concluded, “including the Wolves, which makes it to what? Thirty-five, Forty thousand? How many more could you muster? How would you save your people on Dragonstone?”

Sansa took a deep breath at that. “I wasn’t the only one making threats, Lord Tyrion, when I spoke to your Queen.”

Now Tyrion was truly surprised.

“It is true,” Sansa nodded bitterly, “She’s said so herself. If Jon dies, her word to Jon will mean just as little as my word would to keep the peace.”

Tyrion laughed aloud, causing Sansa to frown.

“You don’t believe me,” she asked angrily.

“Oh, I do,” He said amidst his laughter, “I do. I am merely laughing at the whole thing, because, well I didn’t need more pressure to try and keep Jon alive, Sansa. Now it seems, either he lives, or no one does, twice over. If not the dead, then you two will surely annihilate each other.”

“If you say so,” Sansa shrugged.

Tyrion laughed once more, then emptied his cup and stood. “If only I had half the power that Jon seems to have over women,” He remarked nonchalantly, “Powerful women, beautiful women. And he’s completely oblivious to it all.”

He glanced back at Sansa, taking in her sight. Tall and slender, strong and fierce in her battle attire, her leather corset armour and her trousers and long coat, white wolf pommelled sword by her side. Every bit a Queen, he had to conclude.

“I mean it,” he said, “If they could see you now… You are a Queen, through and through, and they shaped you. Done a damn good job at it.”

“They haven’t shaped me,” She countered, “They tried to destroy me, break me and use me. They abused me. I am not the product of their actions, Lord Tyrion. I am the product of my refusal to allow them to succeed. That, and Jon’s faith in me.”

He nodded, for he couldn’t say anything to that. One ore look at the Queen, and he turned and left the tent.

*****

“What was that about?” Lord Reed stepped in before the flap at the entrance could even settle after Tyrion has left.

“Who knows,” Sansa said. “I can’t say that he seemed to have any specific reason to come.”

Reed studied her, lengthily.

“He’s said she wants to marry Jon,” she said lowly, “that he believes that is what she wants. Unite the claims. Of course, Jon would need mistresses, or a second wife. Jon!”

Reed was stunned, but as she looked up, he could see Sansa smiling, laughing even, silently, at the notion.

“So much for Jon’s own values,” he remarked.

“He may consent to it, who knows,” she said, “After all, he’s a Targaryen. He understands what it means, I know it.”

“You’ve never told me what conspired between you and Jon.”

“NOTHING conspired between me and Jon, Howland,” She retorted. “And nothing will.”

“Did he say that?”

She looked at him lengthily, her eyes speaking of a mixture of feelings. Loss was only one of them. “You know Jon. I did most of the talking.”

“And what did you say?” Reed asked, taking the chair that Tyrion Lannister occupied a mere minutes ago.

“The truth,” Sansa whispered, reaching out her linen-covered hand. Reed began to cut open the stitching and unwrap it, slowly, carefully.

“I told him that he’s a Targaryen,” she continued to whisper, “He’s not a bastard anymore. In people’s eyes, he’s not of the North anymore, no matter how he or I would say otherwise. That there is no chance anymore…” Her voice trailed off, and Reed looked up. Her eyes filled with tears, and he reached out to wipe away the one that broke free with his thumb.

“I am a Queen,” She said resolutely, “Because Jon named me Queen. He gave me the North, and the North would never consent to a match. Certainly not the way Tyrion would have it, further House Targaryen by Jon wedding a second wife while Daenerys is his Queen. I would not consent to it; I would not hand over the North on a silver platter as wedding present.”

She suddenly laughed.

“What is it?”

“Jon told me the same once,” she smiled, on her face the resolution behind her words still visible. “When he left for Dragonstone for the first time, and I questioned why he was so adamant to go. He said, he’d not marry her and hand over the North as wedding present.”

Reed gave him an understanding smile before he returned to his task, allowing her to compose herself in silence. As usual, her assessment was true, in the current circumstances.

“No one knows what the future holds, Sansa,” he whispered, as he finished unwrapping the hand. She began to stretch it, test it.

“You won’t need linens anymore,” Reed remarked.

“I won’t miss them,” she smiled, “Thank you Howland. For saving the hand.”

Reed looked up, seeing her face full of gladness, almost like a child’s. “I’ve done nothing, the work begins now. You must train it, often, push it but not too much. You must learn its limits and push it gently, always further just a little.”

“Not dissimilar to politics,” Sansa said then.

“No, it’s not,” Reed smiled as he stood. “The scouts have returned.”

“And?” The gladness on her face vanished in an instant, overtaken by worry, even dread.

“Nothing,” Reed said, “No sign at all. They went back to the Gods Eye, Sansa. Still no sign at all, and they scoured the woods north of us.”

She sighed a worrisome sigh. “They are out there,” she remarked, “And we cannot find them. I presume Daenerys’ scouts also cannot find them. They are out there, and they are coming for us, and we don’t know how, where…”

She looked up, straight into Reed’s eyes. “Speak to Edric, have the wolves widen our parameters, and double the guards. The doubled guards, double them again. When they come, they’ll hit us first. Have the men rest armed and armoured, Howland, we must be ready. And send Tormund back as soon as he’s ready, we need a vanguard. A bait.”

Reed raised his eyebrow at that.

“We need a vanguard large enough to entice them,” she said, resolutely, confidently like the Queen she was. “Jon said they hunt the living. We don’t know where they are, but they’ll come for a large group of us. Tormund knows how to avoid an attack and return to warn us. And please, speak to Edric. He needs to make his battleplans. We need to turn toward the north and be ready.”

Reed merely nodded, before he rushed out of the tent. Orders have been given.

*****

Tyrion amused himself at the thought of how much quicker he reached the unsullied camp, after how it seemed hours of walking to take him to Sansa’s tent, as he caught sight of his own. A good sleep, that is in order now. There wasn’t much else he could do, with the stars shining bring on the sky, the winds calm, he knew there’ll be no attack tonight. At least he hoped the dead won’t catch him in bed. He wanted to die in bed, but this version of it wasn’t exactly what he’s imagined, he reminded himself. But the camp was calm, and the calmness of it assured him further. There’ll be no attack tonight.

“Lord Hand,” He heard behind him Varys’ voice. “A late night stroll? With no guard? You surely place far less value on your life than our Queen does.”

“Have you followed me,” Tyrion asked outright, as if he could expect a straight answer.

“No, my friend,” Varys said calmly, joining him in his walk toward his tent. Suddenly it seemed miles away. “I merely read from your face the destination of this little stroll you had.”

“She’s my wife,” Tyrion hissed, “Former wife.”

“Old love,” Varys remarked, “I didn’t know you harboured such tender feelings for the Queen in the North.”

Tyrion chuckled at that, at his own words to Sansa. If only.

“May I ask why the late-night visit, then?” Varys asked nonchalantly.

“You may,” Tyrion replied just as nonchalantly, “It is no secret. I am merely doing what a statesman in my position should be doing, Varys. There’s no need for the two queens to bicker over Jon now, we need to avoid it. Diplomacy is often more effective when it comes informally, as a friendly advice, I find.”

“So, you gave some friendly advice,” Varys remarked, “I thought that is the task of Lord Howland Reed.”

“And I am sure Lord Reed carries out his task amicably,” Tyrion agreed, “But as I said during council, we cannot isolate ourselves from each other. Soon the dead will come, and we may end up annihilated against the walls of Kings Landing for all I know. We have more troubling concerns than bickering Queens, don’t you agree?”

“Oh I do, my friend,” Tyrion could hear Varys, wondering if the Spider cared. Wondering when exactly he became so averse to conversing with Varys.

“That is why we have to lay the city under siege, as soon as the sun rises on the morrow,” He explained, “If we are lucky, the city will have rebelled by the time the dead arrive.”

“The dead may arrive as soon as the sun rises on the morrow,” Varys remarked, the deliberate use of Tyrion’s timing not escaping Tyrion.

“They may,” he looked up at the Spider as he reached his tent. He had no intention of continuing this conversation once inside. “And if they do, I will no longer counsel against attacking the city, not even with Jon’s life at risk. There’s an end to every battle, my friend, and sometimes the end is a defeat.”

“Our Queen would not take lightly to a defeat,” Varys gave him a questioning look as he spoke.

“Defeat can have many forms, and names,” Tyrion grinned, “The realisation that one’s fight is futile, may not even be a defeat in the eyes of some. The Red Keep has its port and ships, and dozens of dinghies. If the dead arrive as soon as the sun rises on the morrow, I’ll counsel our Queen to secure them boats and dinghies and settle herself with being Queen of Meereen. I intend to get into one of them boats, and not stop until I am far away where the dead can’t swim. I’d rather die an old man in a bed with wine in my belly and… instead of ending as a blue-eyed corpse.”

*****

Sansa sat for hours after Reed left, trying to think, trying to focus. Trying to imagine what Jon would do, what he’d say, what would he anticipate. She wondered when the attack will come, how many could there possibly be after the complete annihilation of the army of the dead at the Gods Eye. They burned their own fallen throughout the battle, she knew, she saw the dragons turning west, breathing fire, before it all went downhill. But she also remembered vividly of the rotting corpses and skeletons rising from under the ground, how she barely escaped them. Where were they? Why haven’t they followed.?

Daenerys could wait, Tyrion’s notions of double marriages could wait. Even Jon’s captivity could wait, from her perspective. She was Queen in the North. She has to ready the North, whatever that meant, a depleted army of Northmen, wildlings and the Wolves. Jon may not come to save them, they had to get ready to make their own way, somehow.

She couldn’t have known, for she didn’t dare to imagine. Howland Reed couldn’t have known, he never ventured that far whenever he himself embarked on a scout. Tormund couldn’t have known, he never went beyond the sight of the small island that was the Gods Eye, smoke still rising after the fire that burned down the ancient heart trees and weirwoods. Tyrion Lannister, Daenerys and their scouts could’ve never known, they didn’t even venture as far as Tormund did, they weren’t as fearless.

They couldn’t hear the screams, the shrieks, they couldn’t see the storms through the mist that settled in the lands conquered by the dead.

They weren’t there, never scouted as far back as the river, they couldn’t catch the sight of the boats, small and large alike. In them, children and women crying, shaking still, and men. And in some of them, men and women, blue-eyed, their face pale as the rot set in. Hunting. How they turned, perhaps it only took one dead, to catch a boat, to jump, and they were done for. They turned, and now trapped on the water hunted the boats trying to escape to the south, following the river flow, hoping it won’t freeze. They were no longer carrying their fish banners, not even their swords. They were begging to the gods, for they knew now, no banners and houses, no swords and lances could save them.

And further away, in the sea, the same. Boats large and small, ships with sails bearing banners of all kinds, all in a hurry amidst the screams and the storm. Some under the flag of Old Town, some even from further away, from Wyl and Sunspear, and some, their captains no doubt cursing themselves, their cargo now weeping women and children and men, even weeping men, bore the flags of cities far beyond, of Tyrosh, Myr and Pentos. This was not what they came here for, but precious barrels and crates of cargo were all dumped into the sea, as the sailors helped aboard those in the small dinghies.

Beyond them, the harbour, and Lannisport burned in the distance, the light of the flames so strong in the darkness, that if one had the moment to look, they could see clearly, high up on the hill beyond the town, the ruins of Casterly Rock.

No one looked. The shrieks that filled the air again and again only urged them forward, away, as fast as possible. For their lives, for they knew exactly what the shrieks meant know, oh they knew too well. Those trapped on land amidst the fire and the ruins, they were shrieking, calling for them. They were friends once, families, fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, companions at sea, partners in trade. Not anymore. Now they wanted no trade, no love or friendship, as countless sparks lined the shoreline, the remains of the piers; countless blue eyes staring at those who escaped.

Behind them, beyond the smoke clouds rising from the fires, and the screams of those trapped on land and the awful shrieks of those hunting them down, columns of those once-friends and foes alike were already turning to one direction. That of the road, for they achieved their purpose here. As they lined up and began their march, thousands upon thousands moved to join them from the hills, taking to what once was called the Goldroad, with only one destination at its end. Kings Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some statistics (in case there's some 'impatience'😜) - there's 3 more chapters until THE BELLS (the 'rewrite'). 2 new characters from the show will appear before that.  
> On this note, I added the tag, "Daenerys Targaryen is not a mad queen", for anyone who'd worry about them bells 😊
> 
> Also some background, to make it easier to understand because there's contradiction with both show & book:  
> the show omitted Quentyn Martell altogether, and Arianne as well, and portrayed Doran as having one single son, with no other Martells besides Elia and Oberyn. I’ve already “changed” the family tree, in Greywater Watch Quentyn is named as Doran, Elia and Oberyn’s brother living in Essos thus little is known about him apart from having a daughter, Arianne. He’s expected to return and claim Dorne, now that Doran and Oberyn are dead = thus assuming, Quentyn was the youngest son, which makes Arianne a teenager at the time of the story.  
> The family tree is:  
> Princess Dorella (original name unknown, I took one of the Sand’s names that was omitted from the show, and altered it a bit so it doesn’t sound like Doreah – Daenerys’ lysine whore-handmaiden who she locked in the vault in Qarth.)  
> oDoran (married lady Mellario of Norvos)  
>  Trystane  
> oOberyn (unmarried, mistress: Ellaria Sand)  
>  Nymeria (tho she may be borne by a former mistress, not Ellaria – indicated in the show)  
>  Obara  
>  Tyene  
> oElia (married Rhaegar)  
>  Aegon  
>  Rhaenys  
> oQuentyn (married a lady of one of the free cities in Essos. I suppose she’s inherited, and thus Quentyn moved to Essos.)  
>  Arianne


	69. Kings Landing IV.

The fog was so thick, they could barely see ahead. They slowly, carefully dragged the body, surrounding it, always following her, always sniffing around. They were silent, apart from the capes’ sound as they were dragged with the weight of the body pressing them on the snow, there was no sound. Still, they were loud, in a land of no sounds. It was disturbing, the silence they disturbed.

Dragging the body down to the small opening where the camp site used to be was much harder than dragging it up and out of it. In the end, at one point she had to hold whatever weight they couldn’t hold in their teeth, as they lowered the body down.

To Jon’s relief, the dinghies were still there. Thanks to the strong winds, the water didn’t freeze them in either. In the clearing, the fog wasn’t even so bothersome, but that only hastened him.

Jon wondered if the breaths that dissipate around Ghost’s nose are due to the freezing cold, or worse, as he watched Lady Catelyn once more wash Jon’s face. She really must’ve developed an obsession with cleanness, he kept thinking. Or she really wanted Jon to look the best he could when he dies, when the dead hit on them. Or, perhaps she thought, once Jon made it south to Sansa, he’ll make a much better blue-eyed impression with his face free of anything but the rot and his hair neatly arranged.

Or perhaps she really wanted to care for him, Jon reminded himself. Perhaps she wanted to make up for 16 years of scorn and hatred and maltreatment. Her words rang in his ear, as the saying goes…

_All the horror that’s come to my family, because I couldn’t love a motherless child._

She loved him now. She doted on him, almost, and Jon couldn’t understand. It frustrated him, her lack of sense of danger, but at the same time, if he was honest, he could’ve had more of it. If only he was living in his own body now, if only he could wake it, and tell her. Tell her that he’s forgiven it a long time ago. Those weren’t just words, when he’s told them to Sansa before. He wanted to give some peace to Lady Catelyn.

Another thing to do, another relation to mend, he noted to himself. The list is growing. Since the moment he realised his current situation, and began to follow them black capes, his list began to not only grow, but it kept picking up pace. There was Edric Snow. Then there was Jon Connington, the man who dedicated his whole self to Jon’s father, and to Jon, only to be told as if it was nothing that his efforts are futile. But then there was Daenerys. There were so many things to say sorry for, ever since they met. For not trusting her outright, for manipulating her. For things that Jon couldn’t even put into words, for they didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t tell why. Not until he could tell whatever he felt. A lot of things, confusing things he didn’t want to get into now. Same for Sansa, oh he knew what to apologise for, to Sansa. He felt it so clearly, like a sharp knife twisted in his heart – that was really Ghost’s heart. He abandoned her, made even worse by the fact that while he did it, and it took him a long time, step by step, she not once tried to stop him. No, he didn’t want to think about this now either. But then there was Howland Reed. The man who treated him, perhaps even loved him like a son, believed in him, gave his home, all his close ties, and even an arm in this war. And Jon turned his back, and again, not once did Reed try to stop him, either. Same for Ser Davos. Same for Sam, for whom Jon never stood up, never demanded anything for the family that albeit abused Sam and scorned Sam, was still family, and Sam loved them dearly. All of them kept forgiving him, kept allowing him. It wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be; Jon decided at some point during the journey here. If the Gods would ever allow him to wake this barely living body, that is not the kind of man he would want to be. Targaryen or Stark, or Snow – a man has to have principles, Jon decided. A man is worth as much as his word, his deeds – he recalled. Judge a man by his own actions, he told Sansa once. His own actions didn’t paint the picture of a good man in his eyes.

The cold breeze hit him, and he looked around, then froze.

A figure. Standing in the fog, there was a figure up there on the cliff. One jump, a small jump and it’ll stand, and it will… they had to leave, now.

Ghost ran to Lady Catelyn, tugging at her dress, and Silver soon followed suit. Finally, she turned, and as she looked up, she froze the same. Ghost howled. The wolves moved to drag the body, as another figure showed up on the cliff. They were here. They found them.

Lady Catelyn struggled and struggled, trying to lift the body of a man that must be at least twice the weight of her own, dragging it into the water, where the weight diminishes, where the dead don’t follow. Except this wasn’t yet deepwater, she had to make it, Jon thought in panic. He can’t die here. Neither of them can. He looked up once more. There was more of them, two dozen at least, but suddenly, they stepped aside.

Sheer dread hit him. HE is here, it must be HIM.

He stepped forward, slowly. The fog lifted as if on order, and Jon could see. Ghost growled, and all the wolves growled, as they lined up, tightly close to each other in protection of the woman trying to move the body away. The body that HE came for.

How could he have known, Jon wondered. Perhaps he didn’t know at all. Perhaps he got lucky. Perhaps he, Jon did something, or the black capes did something, or lady Catelyn, that drew attention. Perhaps it was Ghost’s whining in the cave.

Finally, she reached the dingy, in the icy water up to her waistline, the weight of the body no longer a concern. Now her problem became how to get it into the small boat. Ghost glanced back. Gods, if he could help her somehow, Jon thought, once more trying to reach out, and once more failing.

Suddenly the thought hit him. They won’t make it out of here. Not all of them will. Ghost growled, and all the wolves growled. Then he turned and made for the water. He cannot let his body go without him, it had to be done. A shriek sounded, as if HE knew about Ghost, and Jon trapped with Ghost, and he could hear the sound of bones breaking, of weight falling hitting the snow-covered ground. A wolf whined. Ghost swam.

Lady Catelyn looked back, dread in her eyes, then pulled herself, and climbed into the boat. The body began to sink underwater, but she was swift, reaching deep in, catching a cape. Ghost watched in horror, as the body moved out of the cape and sank back, and she reached back once more. Behind him he could hear the splashing of water, Wolves whining, growling, commotion. There was a battle behind him, he knew. Lady Catelyn caught the body by the hair she so neatly arranged before.

She reached below the arm as she pulled it close, and screamed, screamed loud as she gave all her strength to pull the body out of the water. It rolled over on the edge of the boat, hitting the small bench in it as it fell. But she wasn’t done yet. She reached once more, straight for Ghost.

One more scream, as she lifted the wolf out of the water. Ghost jumped out of her arms, for the first time turning.

The dead got to the wolves. There were more of them, so many now, they filled the small clearing. He watched as one grabbed a launching wolf by the neck, right in the air, and the body of the animal turned limp – it broke its neck. Ghost howled, loudly, painfully. But at the same time, Lady Catelyn was still struggling, the dingy wasn’t moving. A wight took to the water, then another.

Ghost jumped forth, to see – it was Silver. Lady Catelyn was struggling to lift Silver, her strength spent, and Ghost jumped forth, biting a leg, Silver whining at the pain as he pulled. Finally, the wolf rolled over the edge of the boat, and Lady Catelyn moved to the bench grabbing the oars. Quickly, quickly, Jon kept ushering her, as if it made any difference. They were almost upon them.

Finally, the dinghy moved, but then suddenly stopped. Of course – it was tied up! Lady Catelyn jumped, dragging the rope trying to lift it from the post. Ghost jumped too, nudging the sword that was beside her. She lifted it up, and swung it, straight at the rope. Finally, the boat moved, but a wight was launching for it, so she swung it again. Cut off the arm that grabbed the edge just in that moment.

She sat back and rowed, struggling with every move. Gods, if Jon ever made it back to his own body, there’ll be no words, nothing that will be worthy to repay this debt, he thought. He turned once more toward the shore.

They stood now, and he stood with them, in complete silence, all watching the dingy slowly making its way out to open sea. And the wolves stood, and Ghost’s heart clenched, as he kept howling, and Silver howled with him. His pack was gone. Another name to add to the list, Ghost. For sacrificing his own family for Jon.

*****

Davos shuffled on the horse. Riding really wasn’t his forte, not in his age, not for days on end. Every bone in his body protested, every inch hurt. The saddle felt as if it was made of stone. On one side, Sam Tarly, with a face as if he was watching the end of the world. On the other, Humfrey Hightower, and he wasn’t watching the end of the world. His eyebrows drawn close, his eyes narrow, lips even narrower, his cheeks burning red of anger. No, he was watching betrayal.

At least ten thousand, Davos noted to himself, as they watched the Redwyne army march, right toward the clearing between the walls of Kings Landing, and the Unsullied camp. They were an attraction for sure, for the Unsullied rushed, took formation to defend the camp. Behind them, in the distance, Davos could see thousands of Dothraki rushing to mount.

They marched past the Lions Gate, and neatly lined up right between the now-ready Unsullied line and the wall, right in front of the Gate of the Gods, effectively cutting the clearing in half.

*****

“Good for you to join me, Jaime,” Cersei smiled. She seemed completely carefree, even happy, Jaime wondered, as he stepped beside her.

Of course she was happy.

Jaime could see now, looking to the north west, a thin line between the camp that was there yesterday and the wall. Cersei rang the bell and turned, giving the order to open the gate, as Jaime narrowed his eyes, trying hard to see.

“House Redwyne,” he whispered.

“If you say so,” Cersei laughed. “That is surprising actually. I thought Hightower will arrive before Redwyne. He comes with twenty thousand.”

Jaime glanced at her.

“Yes, twenty thousand,” she repeated. “I told you Jaime, we can hold the city.”

Jaime suddenly realised. “We’re saved,” he whispered.

“We’re saved!” He repeated, louder this time, laughing.

Why on earth would House Redwyne ever support you Cersei? For Olenna Redwyne?!

Men rushed forth and out of the Red Keep through the bridge, and through the city Jaime knew.

He leaned onto the stone rail, watching. Waiting. He could hear Cersei in the solar, wine being poured, and poured once more. She’ll offer him a cup. Sure she did, she brought him a glass cup, a masterpiece. He smiled as he turned it, holding it up in front of him, the pale sun light playing through the shades of red.

“The finest from the Arbor, to the Arbor,” She smiled, and Jaime raised his glass cup to cheer. The wine was refreshing. It was nothing like that heavily watered cheap mix they all drank in the camp. No, Cersei hasn’t marched anywhere, hasn’t fought any battles. No, she sat here in the luxurious comforts of the royal chambers, walled away in the Red Keep. Jaime wanted to puke, but instead, he drank fine Arbor red.

*****

Grey Worm ran, right into the tent.

“There is an army,” he burst out, “Outside the walls. There’s an army, just arrived.”

They all stood in an instance, as one. They were in the middle of council; it took Tyrion almost all morning to convince Jon Connington to attend. Now, Connington, who didn’t say a single word thus far, simply moved to leave the tent along with the others.

“Lord Connington,” Tyrion called out after him as he turned to leave toward the north, the camp of the Company.

“I am no Lord, my Lord Hand,” Griff turned, his face stern.

“Are you not lord of Griffin’s Roost?” Dany asked as she turned at hearing him.

“Not anymore,” Griff smirked, “Your grace, your father stripped me of lands and titles, and exiled me.”

“Yet you are here,” Dany said softly. “And, I say you are the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, Lord Connington. You are a Lord, because that is what I declare.”

Connington startled at that, while Tyrion turned toward the Queen surprised. She merely raised an eyebrow, tilting her head to side as if telling him, what is he waiting for?

“I meant to ask where you are heading, Lord Connington,” Tyrion said.

“Back to my Company,” Griff said, hesitantly staring at his feet. It was indeed an awkward situation, one that he wanted to be part of not a moment longer.

“There may be a battle coming, Lord Connington,” Tyrion remarked.

“I heard,” Griff said, as he looked up, “I am heading back to my post at the head of the Golden Company. Your Grace, my lord,” He bowed and turned. He couldn’t have rushed faster, without running, to leave the scene. Lord Connington, he thought sarcastically.

*****

Finally, the gate opened in the distance.

There was no movement.

Not one soldier seemed to turn.

Jaime turned toward Cersei, “Why are they not coming in?” He asked.

“How would I know,” Cersei hissed, putting down her cup. “You’re supposed to be the commander. What do you see?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes once more. “The Unsullied are in battle formation,” He began to explain, just as two columns of Dothraki rode forth, and stopped in front of the unsullied lines he studied. “Well, that is…”

“Dothraki,” Cersei watched them intently.

“Yes,” Jaime declared. “They ride forth to attack, but there isn’t much distance. I presume it’s more for protection.”

He turned toward Cersei. “If I may make a suggestion,” He began, and she nodded. “Send an emissary to that army, ask for Lord Redwyne to come to the Red Keep. If Redwyne has any notion of how battles are fought, he’ll leave his army right there. The Dothraki can’t gain speed against them.”

She reached for the bell, but she stopped mid motion. There was clearly no need to send for Redwyne to come to her.

*****

Dany stood in front of her tent. For what she was waiting, she couldn’t tell. Something to happen. Varys was gone, and Tyrion was gone, albeit within eyesight, talking to men, rushing orders out. She watched. Her heart slowly settled to its normal pace at the sight.

She liked Tyrion Lannister. She trusted Tyrion Lannister. Late night strolls to the northern camp could not change that, she never had reason to doubt Tyrion Lannister. Earlier this day, Varys came to her. She never had reason to distrust Varys either. Why Varys was eager to make her aware of Tyrion’s late-night strolls, she couldn’t tell.

She turned toward the north, at the sound of commotion. Once more, her heart travelled up her throat, pumping so heavily that she wondered if it could smother her.

“What are they doing?!” She hissed, to the arriving Tyrion next to her.

“Who,” he asked. Of course, he couldn’t see.

“The Golden Company,” Dany explained with a voice full of hatred, fury. “They are retreating. The elephants have turned to the north.”

“Hmmm,” was Tyrion’s response and she turned in disbelief.

“Is that all you can say?”

“They are waiting for Jon’s command, your grace,” Tyrion said as if it was nothing, “If Jon tells them to attack the city, or fight that army, then they will.”

Her eyes grew wild. “Well, Jon is not here,” she hissed.

“No, he is not. Which is why they would retreat.”

Dany couldn’t believe it. What was this even about, has she not been Jon’s… her thought stopped. What, exactly, she couldn’t tell. Heir? Lover? Queen?

_I never swore fealty, Dany._

“I just confirmed to make Connington a Lord again,” she said calmly.

Tyrion merely turned toward the south as he spoke, “I don’t think he cares about being the Lord of Griffin’s Roost, your grace. He cares about Jon, though, very much.”

*****

“It’s not a loss we cannot deal with,” Cersei remarked, once more calmly, as if nothing happened.

“Come to your senses, Cersei,” Jaime hissed.

“Hightower has twice the number,” she said. Jaime could see, her eyes, her expression – as if she wasn’t even watching the same scene unfolding. A Mad Queen. How many times did he see this expression on a different face, much older, crowned with silver hair… It was an expression he would always recognise.

“I can’t believe this,” he frowned.

“He sent a raven,” Cersei began to explain, as if the comment referred to Hightower. “He is on his way with twenty thousand.”

*****

“What could be so urgent that you ran, Howland,” Sansa smiled.

“The Golden Company,” Howland rushed the words, amidst gasping for air. “The Golden Company moved north.”

Sansa stood. “Is it an attack,” she asked calmly, solemnly.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Reed said, but as he looked up, Sansa was already looking behind him. He turned as well. Finally, a welcome sight.

“And you’ve returned once more, Ser Davos,” Sansa gave the old knight a wide smile, an honest, happy smile.

“I did, your grace,” Davos returned the gesture as he dismounted, and bowed deep in front of Sansa, “As I always do.”

His companions soon joined him.

“And Samwell Tarly,” Sansa’s voice rang like music, “A very welcome sight.”

“Your grace,” Sam bowed, “This here,” he stepped aside to give way, “is Humfrey Hightower.”

Sansa’s smile faded as she watched the man. He was the only one among the three who didn’t bow, he went down on one knee. Reverence, Sansa thought. Behind him, fifty more did the same, no doubt of Highgarden.

She took a step closer, studying the man, though she couldn’t see much from the kneeling, bowing man in front of her.

“Rise,” she said calmly, and Humfrey Hightower rose, his eyes meeting hers. Gods, he’s so young, Sansa thought, as she began to take note of him. Yes, definitely young, perhaps even her age, but not more than Jon’s. Blue eyes, like the sea. Blond curls, around a friendly face, a definitive set of eyebrows, not too prominent, but for his hair, definitely darker. Small, prominent nose, lips not too thin, not too full, cheekbones not too prominent… nothing was outstanding on him. Yet as Sansa tilted her head slightly sideways, taking him in as a whole, he seemed rather pleasing to look at. Not too handsome, but definitely not displeasing. He had a long, strong neck, and broad shoulders. Tall, taller than her with these boots on her feet – definitely taller than Jon even.

“Welcome, Lord Hightower,” She said then, with a courteous smile, reaching out her hand.

He kissed it. The man had manners.

She pulled back her hand as she motioned toward Reed, “This is Lord Howland Reed, Hand of the Queen.” Humfrey bowed deeply, and no doubt Reed returned the gesture. By now, men around them were standing, watching the scene.

“You must’ve had a long journey, Lord Hightower,” She began.

“Not a Lord, your grace,” Humfrey smiled. “That’s my brother Baelor. Not a knight either, that’s my other brother… forgive me, your grace.”

He was nervous, Sansa realised in that instant. He was nervous to meet her. Humfrey Hightower, she repeated to herself, glancing at the man. Humfrey Hightower.

“Your grace, there are urgent matters,” Ser Davos stepped close, his voice low, weary. There was no time for this, Sansa realised. She sent a guard to fetch Arya, Brienne, and ushered them into her tent.

*****

“Lord Paxter Redwyne, your grace,” Varys declared as he stepped aside from the entrance of the tent. Redwyne stepped forth, two similarly middle-aged men behind him. They bowed deep. Dany waited, as Missandei listed out all her titles.

“Lord Redwyne,” she greeted the man as the list finished, but didn’t stand from her chair. “Come, take a seat.”

He did, sat down as if it was his, Dany thought. She was used to men like Redwyne. She swallowed the chuckle at the thought. She didn’t even remember their names, the captains of the Second Sons. Sat exactly like Redwyne, as if they owned the world. As if they owned her. Certainly like they owned Missandei, one of them slapped her on her backside.

“Stories of your beauty were not exaggerating, your grace,” Redwyne grinned, “Truly, such a beauty I have never seen, and I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women in my life. Cersei Lannister among them.”

Dany allowed a slight smile to herself. A well worded compliment that was, appealing to a woman’s vanity, saying more of the man who said it than intended. Redwyne wasn’t keen on ruled by women, that much was immediately clear.

“Pleasantries mean little to me, Lord Redwyne,” She said kindly. “I am told you marched an army of ten thousand between mine and the walls of the city. I would rather hear of your intentions with that army.”

“My intentions with that army,” Redwyne shuffled in the chair, “Well I mean for them to aid you in overthrowing Cersei Lannister.”

Dany raised her eyebrows as she nodded, as if it was something new to definitely take note of. If he didn’t intend that, he wouldn’t have ridden into this camp.

“And on what terms do you intend to do that, Lord Redwyne,” She asked.

Redwyne grinned, widely grinned at the question, but Dany could see, it was a mask, hiding the surprise that settled on the man.

“Well, I would ask that you consider one of my twins as your suitor,” he began, “But I’ve heard the position is already taken. Gods forbid of me asking for something that could stand in the way of your happiness, your grace.”

It angered her, it really did, talk of Jon like this. He’s heard she had a suitor? How? From whom? That was something to take note of, she decided as she nodded for him to continue.

“I only ask for the Lordship Paramount,” Redwyne said then, “And Highgarden.”

Only. She glanced at Tyrion by her side, their eyes meeting for a moment.

“Any other contenders?” She asked calmly, her face emotionless.

“Hightower,” Redwyne declared.

“That,” Tyrion spoke, “May be a slight problem.”

“It is mine by right,” Redwyne’s face grew darker as he spoke, “My wife is a Tyrell. My aunt was Olenna Tyrell, whose oath I am here to uphold.”

“She certainly had no such terms to her oath,” Dany remarked.

“No, she’s already had what I need, your grace,” Redwyne countered, “And it’s been taken from us, along with most of our grain- and livestock, our people harassed, our lands looted. I mean to restore order. In your name, may I add.”

“That is something that I would very much value, my Lord,” Dany spoke, “However, correct me if I’m wrong, doesn’t Hightower control Old Town? Once the wars are won, I will require the blessing of the Citadel.”

“It is of no worry, your grace,” Redwyne remarked. “By that time, the Citadel will be cleansed of those necromancers in Hightower, no one who harbours traitors should hope for mercy, your grace.”

At that, Dany chuckled, unable to swallow it down. For sure, Redwyne spoke his mind, as if he already held the title he craved.

“And who are these traitors,” Tyrion asked.

“The Tarlys, of course,” Redwyne declared, “Randyll Tarly rose against Highgarden, against you, your grace. If you ask me, he got the justice that traitors deserve. If you ask Hightower, you won’t receive the same answer.”

Dany once more glanced at Tyrion, her nod barely visible. Tyrion stood swiftly, he still understood what the nod meant.

“Thank you, my Lord, for attending this council,” he said, “Now if you would allow us to consider your terms in private.”

Redwyne stood, albeit clearly, he wanted to speak. But Dany already turned away, toward Missandei standing behind her, whispering in High Valyrian.

“Your grace,” he called out, forcing her attention.

“Surely, your journey must have been long and tiresome,” Dany smiled, “There will be a battle soon enough, Lord Redwyne. In any case, I reward men who prove their value, so I would suggest you and your men take the opportunity to rest.”

Finally, he turned and left the tent, his captains closely behind him.

“Jon will never agree,” Tyrion said as soon as they were alone, and Varys raised an eyebrow.

“Jon is not king,” Dany remarked, “I am the ruler.”

“That is true,” Tyrion agreed with a sigh. No one spoke then, as Dany studied their faces, Tyrion’s worried eyes, compared to those of perhaps disinterest, perhaps only boredom of Varys. It was a mask, she realised. The mask he always wore.

“You are right,” She whispered, her eyes fixed on Varys, “Jon would never agree.”

The eyes didn’t change. She’s let out a sigh. Relief.

*****

Stew was served to the men in bowls, freshly baked bread accompanying it. Sansa wondered if it’s worth to serve their watered wine to Humfrey Hightower, what would he think. But in the end, Reed returned with a flask of ale, where he got it from, she didn’t know. The crannogmen did their own thing in the camp, whether it came to hunting their own food, or now, brewing ale in the camp. Like in the marshes, they made the most with what they’ve got. Sansa didn’t eat, she watched.

Humfrey Hightower. He spoke little, mainly shushing with Sam, so lowly she couldn’t understand, as the two of them ate from their laps. Sansa didn’t bother excusing herself for the lack of suitable table. They were an army on the march for who knows how long, after all. Part of her wanted this man to see that.

He didn’t seem to be bothered at all. In fact, it seemed to Sansa that he was the kind that can’t be really bothered by many things. He seemed rather… carefree.

The tent began to fill up, Arya arrived, then Ser Brienne. Finally, Edric Snow, and to Sansa’s surprise, Snow brought Jon Connington with him.

“Your grace,” Edric began, “There is a matter to discuss.”

“There are multiple matters to discuss,” She smiled.

“This is one of the Golden Company,” Griff stepped forward, “I came to assure you, we haven’t moved our forces in preparation to attack. We merely moved them away from the Targaryen forces, because there’s an army south of them.”

Humfrey looked up, “Redwyne,” he declared, the hatred in his voice unavoidable to hear.

“Perhaps our multiple matters are all related,” Reed wondered aloud.

“Your grace,” Humfrey Hightower stood, “Lord Redwyne marched ten thousand men here to join Daenerys Targaryen, that’s the army. We saw them arrive. My brother however, he marched here twice that number.”

“Am I right in perceiving,” Sansa remarked, “that we find ourselves in the midst of a war?”

“Not a war,” Humfrey said hesitantly, “Not yet, at the least, your grace. But the Arbor and Hightower don’t harbour amicable relations, that is true.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “We have no time for the bickering of lords,” she said sternly.

“Hightower does not ask you to intervene,” Humfrey countered. “Albeit my brother has his terms, but he understands that you aren’t here to enjoy the milder climate. The army didn’t march here… it would’ve marched here anyways. Your presence however gave us a way out. Ser Davos could perhaps explain better.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow toward Davos.

“Just say it as it is next time, Humfrey,” Davos laughed at the hesitant Humfrey Hightower, cheeks blushing, “No need to beat around the bush.”

“Cersei called the banners of the Reach,” Davos turned toward Sansa and Reed standing behind her. “Lords and heirs to the Red Keep, armies to protect themselves with to Kings Landing. Redwyne and Hightower brought their armies.”

“That speaks for the situation in the Reach,” Reed remarked.

“It does,” Davos agreed. “Lord Baelor saw Cersei’s order as a death sentence.”

“The armies to fight for her capitol,” Sansa thought aloud, “The lords and heirs to ensure they will fight. They are worthless against dragons. If Daenerys wants to, all she needs to do is burning the Red Keep and it removes anyone who would consider Cersei’s support. And, she wants to do just that, albeit not because of the lords and heirs.”

She turned toward Humfrey Hightower. “You said your brother has terms. I take it, his terms include saving him from this fate in the Red Keep.”

“Him and my other brother, his heir,” Humfrey nodded, “But I am not charged to discuss his terms. He wanted to do that himself.”

“Yet he is not here,” Arya interrupted.

“Neither is Jon Targaryen,” Humfrey countered, “With whom he wanted to discuss his terms, besides you, your grace.”

Sansa looked around the tent. The grim look that settled on all their faces was unmistakable, so much so that Sam has put down his bowl immediately, his face of sheer worry.

“Where is Jon,” he asked hesitantly.

“In the Red Keep,” Sansa whispered, “We presume. He’s not there to answer Cersei’s call to arms.”

“He’s captive,” Sam summed it up. Silence was his answer, as confirmation.

“So it is true,” he said, “The Gods Eye, the battle…”

“Lost,” Edric stepped in. “The dead are expected to join this mighty gathering.”

Sansa merely watched the face of Humfrey Hightower. The light that sparked in his eyes was unmistakeable. Men, they are eager to risk their lives. Until they have to risk their lives.

“Don’t be so glad,” she whispered, “You’ve not yet seen them.”

“I am eager to do my share,” Humfrey said, for the first time without hesitation or blushing cheeks. “So is my brother. He’s told Ser Davos; Hightower would always fight for the living.”

Davos nodded to Sansa at that. That was all she needed.

“He should march his forces right here then, not hide them… wherever he hides his twenty thousand. In the woods I presume.”

“And when he marches them out of the woods and straight into your camp,” Humfrey asked, “And Redwyne marches his army straight to the Dragon Queen, how will that look, your grace?”

He found his balls, Sansa thought, immediately retorting herself for the thought. A lady doesn’t think such things. She’s spent too much time in army camps.

“There may be a battle at any moment,” Sansa retorted, “We need every man we can get. That is what Jon used to say.”

“Your grace,” Reed stepped forward, “If I may speak.” She nodded.

“I would advise that you return with Ser Davos and join Lord Hightower. Discuss his terms, and if I may add, to be away from battle. We don’t have Jon, and he would order it anyways.”

“He would order you to join me, Lord Reed,” Sansa added.

“I have to agree,” Arya added in an instant. “Jon would also order that we prepare for battle. Make our plans.”

“He would,” Sansa agreed, “However he would order the same in the Targaryen camp, and the Golden Company. This is still an allied army, I believe.”

“Which is why my brother didn’t march straight for your camp, your grace,” Humfrey added. “He would welcome you; I am sure of it.”

“Sam and I should also join you,” Davos said, with Sam nodding vehemently.

“I’ve not agreed yet to leave,” Sansa argued.

“Your grace,” Brienne stepped forward, “I must agree with Lady Arya and Lord Reed. We need every man we can get, there is twenty thousand awaiting to join this alliance. They didn’t seek out the Dragon Queen, they came to you.”

That is because we sent Ser Davos and Sam, Sansa remarked to herself. Her eyes found Edric’s who nodded. It seemed, everyone wanted her out of the camp. Out of where they expected the battle to be at its worst. She stood.

“I see you all agree,” She said, “But Arya is right. Jon would command the preparation for battle, Lord Edric? Griff? The Golden Company removed itself from a potential fight against Cersei as I understand, will they do the same against the dead?”

Griff gave her a slight grin in return. “As you said, your grace, Jon would command it. The company follows Jon’s command.”

“Tormund left at sunrise, your grace,” Edric added then, “I spoke with Griff, even if the Targaryen forces engage in… a rescue activity, and won’t be available to us, we will carry out a similar plan to Jon’s. I must add, the Hightower force could be helpful, but we can encircle them all the same, considering we expect a smaller force to arrive. They can’t have much after the Gods Eye.”

Sansa nodded thankfully. “I will leave then,” she said lowly, and added, “Lord Reed will leave with me.”

“Your grace,” Reed stepped closer, merely whispering.

“It is the way,” she whispered, “I need someone to keep me informed.”

*****

Tyrion spent the past hour in discussion with Daenerys. The Redwyne arrival truly fazed them, he thought. Perhaps not as much as it must’ve fazed Cersei, though. Tyrion even told Dany the same, imagine what Cersei felt, seeing Redwyne’s defection. Perhaps now she’ll consider releasing Jon, is what she said, but Tyrion knew better. No, they would need more. Who knows how many lords arrived before the allied army did, how many of them entered the city? They had to encircle the city now. Redwyne has been ordered thus to prove himself, blockade the Lions Gate, while they spread out the camp to cover the northern side of the city.

They also discussed Redwyne himself. Tyrion had little counselling to do – Dany was weary to do anything regarding the Tarlys, she wanted to wait for Jon. Ruler or not, she wasn’t willing to ignore Jon’s interest, not even for an alliance and an oath of fealty. For that, Tyrion was glad. He definitely didn’t like Redwyne’s remarks about the necromances and traitors. The Hightowers. The Reach must’ve been brewing for a while. Tyrion was certain, Redwyne’s alliance was merely an initiative – to escape Cersei’s outrageous call to arms, or better said, sacrifice, just as much as taking an opportunity to strike the deal before Hightower had the chance. He was just as certain that Dany saw through it, and that Redwyne didn’t leave a good first impression at all. No, Dany would wait for Jon with this decision, and while she did, Redwyne would have to prove his intentions, against the dead even, not against Cersei.

Thus, he left the tent in a fairly good mood, they just gained ten thousand fresh troops. His mood immediately darkened however as he took to the path. Stepping behind a tent, he watched as Varys and Redwyne argued. He couldn’t hear it, but seeing it was enough. Redwyne wasn’t happy. Varys tried to calm him. The Spider, Tyrion thought.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooopsie - there’s been a correction to the last scene - gate names were wrong (Old Gate / Lions Gate)
> 
>  
> 
> just a note - I'll limit chapters to max 1/day - I struggle with second ones, I start to write then want to finish, and I'm never as happy with them because I'm tired by the end. So I'll stick to 1/day to make sure I don't drop quality (again).  
> This one was hard - it's one thing writing a nice treat switching scenes, and a whole other writing them, short "cuts" I found 😂


	70. Kings Landing V.

“When Tormund arrives, I’d rather be on the western side,” Edric remarked, deep in thought. In front of him, a map, he leaned closer once more to study the intricate drawings, cliffs. As he looked up, he could see Arya’s questioning face.

“The elephants, Lady Arya,” he reasoned, “They’re better hidden in the woods. We don’t want them run off the cliffs and we have to separate them from our wolves.”

Griff chuckled at that. “Lady Arya,” he laughed, “You see this is how grand plans backfire. They bred those wolves to scare off our elephants. It must’ve been a hundred years ago at least? It may be an urban tale. In any case, we defeated them, because of our elephants, over some insignificance really, a couple of petty merchants didn’t get paid in Norvos. We drove Edric’s company back to the Hills of Norvos. Them wolves were their response and now, we can’t figure what to do with them.”

“I am also missing some wolves,” Edric remarked. “I’ve had 760 last I counted, just before the battle at the Gods Eye. Now I have twenty less, and they’ve not fought.”

“Isn’t Ghost supposed to be with your wolves,” Arya asked.

“Aye, he was, but he’s not with them now. Perhaps went looking for Jon, like the dragon. Animals are loyal, Lady Arya, but their knowledge goes only so far. They can’t perceive an abduction. They only know that Jon is not here. Queen Daenerys expects the dragon is looking for Jon somewhere.”

“He’s not been seen in this camp,” Arya nodded.

“Perhaps flew north,” Griff added, “The Gods know why. We have to make do without dragons.”

“So, when they arrive,” Arya turned back toward the map, “Where will you be?”

Griff pointed at the woods just north of the Goldroad. “I’ll leave them beasts in the woods and camp here. We’ll be out of sight. I would suggest the mounted men to join us, easier to ride around under the cover of the woods”

“Easier to break the legs of horses,” Brienne remarked at the back.

“I agree,” Arya looked at Brienne, “I don’t care about the legs of horses. I care about encircling the dead, Ser. What if a few of them breaks their legs, better that than a defeat.”

“Once we encircled them, we’ll have to find a way to kill them,” Edric remarked.

“We’ve not encircled them, yet,” Griff countered. “Their way toward the city will be open.”

“The Targaryen camp is there,” Arya shrugged, “I suppose they care enough to turn and fight?”

“They may be there, they may not,” Griff said lowly, “I was called into a council, before them southern armies arrived. They wanted a battleplan to sack the city, while she burns the Red Keep.”

“Jon would never agree to the sacking of the city,” Arya hissed. “He’d never agree to the sacking of any city.”

“Truth be told,” Edric declared, “Sooner or later that city would be razed. How do you think they meant to claim the Throne, my Lady, by asking?”

“I don’t think Jon thought ahead that much,” Arya said defensively. “And if she sacks the city, that won’t matter because if I was Cersei, I’d take Jon to the highest balcony in the keep and I’d throw him down, right in front of her and her firebreathing dragon.”

They all sighed at that.

“Cersei won’t give up Jon,” Arya whispered, “My sister is right, Cersei will never give up Jon. She’d rather die, and if she has to die, she’ll make sure to take Jon with him, so we all die.”

Edric dumped himself back in the chair.

“If I may speak true once more,” he whispered, “This whole shit war seems futile. What are we doing? Jon dies, we all die. We wait and die, the Queen sacks the city and we die, we fight the dead and we die. What the fuck is the point?”

“Jon would never give up,” Brienne declared, and they all nodded. It was true, Jon would’ve never given up on the living. “Who knows, perhaps by now Ser Jaime saw him, talked to him, perhaps they have a plan of escape that we don’t know about.”

“I wouldn’t trust that,” Arya hissed, all of them responding with a look that told her clearly, she was alone with her belief.

“Again, I wouldn’t trust that,” she said, her voice firmer, “And I don’t. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Edric raised an eyebrow.

She chuckled. “Why do you think I am in this camp, Lord Edric?” She asked, “Because Jon told me to be patient. Because he didn’t have a plan, he was waiting for the opportunity. You should let me go and I’ll get Jon back.”

“And how would that…” Griff began, but Arya interrupted.

“Valar Morghulis,” she whispered, and both Griff and Edric’s eyes grew wide, watching as she pulled a coin from her pocket. She laid it on the table, both men’s eyes fixed on the small coin. Edric reached, but stopped mid-motion, pulling back his hand.

“Valar Dohaeris,” Griff nodded then, a slight grin forming in the corner of his mouth, “All men must serve. And women, it seems.”

“Let me go,” Arya repeated, straight to Edric, “If Jon is there, I’ll find him. And I’ll kill Cersei. She’s the last name on my list, I’ve been patient long enough.”

Edric merely nodded, the shock he felt still visible on his face. “Make your plans, Lord Edric,” Arya said, “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

She turned and stormed out of the tent, Brienne rushing after her.

“My Lady,” she called out, “My Lady, I cannot allow this. I swore to your mother…”

“To keep Sansa safe,” Arya finished the sentence, without even a hint that she would stop or discuss the matter any further.

“To keep both of you safe,” Brienne corrected, just as determined not to leave the matter be.

Arya didn’t respond. How could she tell Ser Brienne, twice her size, that she has absolutely no use of her protection? She stopped at the kennels, the stableboys already rushing to prepare a horse.

“One for me, too,” Brienne called out, and at that, Arya turned, her eyes furious. “I know you can protect yourself, my lady,” Brienne said, “But I swore an oath. Let me aid you.”

“Aid me,” Arya asked with an eyebrow raised, “Or protect someone else?”

“My lady if you suggest that I…”

“Tall, aging blond with a golden hand, Ser Brienne,” Arya said nonchalantly, shutting her up mid-sentence.

“So be it,” Arya said, reading the look on her face. “Come with me, if you will. I have no inclination to protect golden hands, but perhaps someone should.”

“Come with you where?” They heard and turned toward where the voice came from. Sandor Clegane stepped out. “You headin' off, have you grown bored with this fucking camp then?”

Arya chuckled, but Brienne raised an eyebrow. She would’ve protested, Arya was certain, if Clegane didn’t continue.

“Good,” He puffed, “I’m bored with sitting in this shithole. Get me a horse, boys,” he waived toward the man, who already began saddling a third horse.

“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” Brienne asked.

Clegane shrugged. “Where else but that shithole of a city?” he asked, “and even if not, anywhere is better than sitting here, waiting for rotting dead men to come and kill me. And, I have unfinished business in that shithole of a city.”

*****

“Look,” Reed stopped his horse, turning to the side, toward the city. Sansa, Ser Davos, then also Sam and Humfrey stopped. They all watched, as the Redwyne forces marched past the city walls, past the Gate of the Gods, turning south following the wall.

Their march was so orderly, well executed. They reached the Lion’s Gate, and a garrison moved to separate just on the Goldroad, moving away from the city. They marched as far as the King’s Gate, another garrison turning toward the southern Kingsroad. They effectively covered the eastern side of the city, and then they stopped.

“A siege?” Sam asked, “They are blockading the gates.”

“Looks like Lord Tyrion managed to make some sense,” Sansa said lowly, “If there’s encirclement of the city, there won’t be an attack just yet.”

*****

“Your grace.”

Cersei looked up from her cup. Her Hand stood at the door. “There’s no way out of the city. Not by land.”

The man looked worried, truly worried.

“The dead are coming, apparently,” Cersei shrugged, “There are four armies outside our gates to welcome them, from whichever side they chose to attack. Why would anyone want to leave the city? To fight? Don’t be a fool.”

“If there is no way out,” Qyburn remarked hesitantly, “There is also no way in, your grace. Hightower will not be able to enter.”

At that, Cersei had to laugh.

“And why would I want Hightower to enter the city?” She yelled out. “To hide his twenty thousand behind MY walls? No, Hightower will have to fight Redwyne. I have no problem with that. Now, leave me.”

*****

Jon watched the shoreline. The fog seemed to cover less and less, until there was none of it and he could see every piece of rock and little bush of grass, wherever grass could find its way through the rocky ground and survive. Sure, there was no green among them, they were misty, it was obvious even from the sea. But they weren’t covered in snow anymore. No, they left behind the land of the dead.

His thoughts kept returning to the wolfpack he sacrificed. There was a time when he used to sacrifice himself. Lately, it seemed, he’s grown used to sacrificing others instead of himself. There were moments when he felt like he can’t bear it. The acute hatred he felt for himself, there was a moment or two when he wanted to take to the throat of the body. At other times, he wanted to cry. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t allow the feeling to come to the fore. Ghost would howl, and Silver would howl and if there was anyone near the shore, they’d hear. Friend, perhaps. Foe, most likely.

Even looking at the silver-grey wolf was painful. When Ghost bit the leg, in his attempt to help Lady Catelyn drag the wolf into the boat, he bit way too hard. Silver kept licking the wound, with Jon wondering if he broke a bone. He hated the fact that the silver-grey showed no sign of aggression toward him. Oh she understood, it was to save her life. She’s seen the pack standing, their icy blue eyes fixed on the boat.

Jon began to wonder if he ever wanted to return into his own body. And if he did, would Ghost just turn around, never wanting to see him again? Walk off into the sunset with a limping Silver, if Silver could even walk on that leg, letting Jon know in no uncertain terms that he’s went too far this time.

And not just this time. The hours in the boat were not wasted by Jon. He went through every event, one by one, in chronological order. From the dreadful memory of gasping for air, finding himself naked on his own desk, in his own solar – the Lord Commander’s small wooden room of a solar, Ser Davos rushing to him. He hung those mutineers, and he crated their risen bodies, denying them a peaceful end. Then he went and beat Ramsay Bolton’s head to a plump – no he didn’t regret that, because by then he knew of Sansa’s torment in great detail, details when back in those days, never left his mind.

He’s accepted when they hailed him King in the North, knowing well that it wasn’t his. Of course he’s offered it to Sansa, that was the right thing to do. But it wasn’t like he regretted her not taking it. It also wasn’t like he didn’t know. If he ever bothered to look, the way she looked after him, clothed him, supported him, he should’ve known – if he ever cared to look. He didn’t. All he cared about is how to gain more men, how to prepare. It overtook his life, every waking hour he spent trying to figure it out. Trying to be king, trying to scheme.

Dragonstone, he didn’t linger on much – he already knew what kind of regrets came of it. But he regretted taking the oaths of the Wolves, allowing Edric Snow to kneel and hail him the greatest king that ever was. He’s used Edric, just as he’s used Daenerys, and even Jaime Lannister. He’s used Howland Reed.

As the war went on, and he took account of his every failure, he hated himself more and more. How easily he decided to kill Gran Umber. How easily he’s made his plans to leave Winterfell behind, the home he was given, by the man who lived in a lie all Jon’s life just to protect him, keep him safe. He gave it all up, and hated Glover when the man dared to confront him about it.

How he took every loss, every sacrifice by others as inevitable, the razing and burning of White Harbor, the loss of Greywater Watch. He kept pressing on, while others kept paying the price, and if he was honest, he hasn’t given much. He resigned his kingship, placing the weight of it on Sansa’s slender shoulders just when the kingdom was being overrun, when its people were arriving by the thousands every hour on Dragonstone. He resigned the birthright his father died to protect, easily, feeling exactly nothing about it, at moments even praising himself for not giving it cheaply. Instead he’s cemented the isolation of his homeland from any source of help, furthering Sansa’s predicament, that he knew well she struggled with, keenly aware of the North being unable to sustain itself after Jon having used it as playground in his war of attrition.

And then there was a whole different set of regrets, he’s made love to Daenerys. He wasn’t sure to regret it, but she was right – he was between two women, wanting both, and if he was honest to himself, it was something they had that he wanted. He told himself he can’t let go, because he didn’t want to – Sansa was home, the feeling of belonging. Yet she wanted the other one, the hot-blooded passion of it, perhaps even the power they represented. His new self, Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, Prince promised… it’s so true, power itself is the most powerful thing that could tempt a man. He never would’ve believed himself to be tempted, and yet, he was. He knew he shouldn’t be with Daenerys, the only thing he’s taken seriously – as much as he could – has been the weight of furthering his father’s name, and yet, he shared her bed, knowing it would not serve the purpose. Even being glad, that it wouldn’t – he would never want to father a bastard.

What Dany’s plans were, he could not tell. She wanted him. But it was just one of many things he should’ve addressed. From Jon Connington’s blind faith in him, to Sam’s complete abandonment by him, he was by now the guiltiest man he ever knew. Murderers and rapists, he’s called brothers at the wall, but he was worse than them in his own eyes now. He didn’t murder or rape, no, those deeds came with an end to them. His deeds were worse, because they just kept on and on, never ceasing, always rolling ahead, dragging more and more down with them.

How could he claim that he loved them? How could he even claim he loved Ghost? He’s been using Ghost these past days, he lost count how many days. Ghost was here, with him, his soul, his sense of self Jon pushed aside, claiming his body. No, Jon deserved no love, he’s decided. He deserved none of them, and while he concluded that in order to at least give Ghost some justice he’d have to return to his own body and subsequently, he can’t just tear its neck open – tasting his own blood wasn’t near as appealing as others’ – once that’s been done somehow, he’ll have to turn this around. He’ll have to give them justice, a chance – he’ll have to let them go, he’ll have to do what he told himself to this day he’s been doing, now he has to begin actually doing. He has to help them, and he has to protect them. And then, once they are all safe, he has to make sure that they’ll never sacrifice anything more for him again.

He watched the shoreline, though there wasn’t anything to see. He tried to recall earlier where his armies could be, he settled to expect them at Kings Landing. He hoped to get there in time, before HE arrives, before he has a chance to end this war on his terms. There were thoughts, time to time, what if it’s already done – what if the whole world has turned into land of the dead, and HE ruled, and they were all gone, doing HIS bidding now. But there was pale sunlight still. This was not an endless night, not yet anyways. Jon hoped he’ll arrive in time to ensure that there’ll never be an endless night.

Men appeared on the shore. Instinctively, Ghost laid down in the boat, right beside the body, peaking out. Lady Catelyn took to the bench, her hands resting on the handle of the oars. The men moved about, and she watched intently, no doubt wondering whether they were friend or foe.

In the end, she must’ve decided, for she turned the boat toward them, and began to row.

Jon watched intently, for he’s never seen men like these before. They weren’t Westerosi, that was certain, and his limited knowledge of Essosi was far too little to put them anywhere. He was weary of them – Ghost kept close to the body, tensely guarding it.

Lady Catelyn didn’t seem phased by them as much, albeit Jon couldn’t really tell. At times she stopped rowing and watched them. The men never paid attention to her, as if the boat weren’t even there. They kept attending to the horses, taking care to caress them while they saddled them, and led them one by one up the cliff. The small cliff was not dissimilar to where the black capes camped, but these weren’t black capes. They weren’t dead either, their movement, their neat, however unique attire spoke clearly of that.

In fact, that was the most unusual about them. They were armoured, which weren’t a surprise considering every leaving soul was at war with someone, but Jon couldn’t put them anywhere unless they were Cersei’s. Perhaps Cersei bought herself yet another army. How many sellsword companies were in Essos? Jon couldn’t even list them all. The idea wasn’t without irony, for if Lady Catelyn saved him only to – accidentally, Jon was certain – hand him over to Cersei, that would’ve surely crowned this experience.

As the boat drew closer, Jon could see more detail as well. The detail on their armour began to draw his interest. So intricate, Jon never seen anything like it. He wondered what the point is of an intricate armour. One fight, and it’s stained and bloody and dented, then all that effort to create it is wasted, there’s no point of such an overkill, unless it’s worn for looks only. Some sort of ceremonial armour, Jon thought.

Then he saw as one of them picked up a spear. At first Ghost moved to defensive position, Jon fully expecting the man to throw the spear toward them, toward Lady Catelyn. But the man was just like the others, acting as if the boat wasn’t even there. It also wasn’t just a simple spear. No, its pointy end wasn’t like any spear he’s ever seen before. It was a flame. A writhing flame.

Instinct kicked in, of what, Jon couldn’t yet tell. But Ghost growled, and Silver growled with him, startling Lady Catelyn. The men turned toward the sound, for a moment watching the dingy that neared them, then returning to their tasks as if it was the most normal sight, a pale woman and two direwolves in a dingy, along with a man’s body.

But then Jon understood. As soon as he saw the woman coming down to the small beach, he put it together. He’s never seen the woman before, that was true, but who else would wear such an attire? Long crimson ropes, orange flames embroidered on them as if she was walking on fire itself. She didn’t ignore the approaching dingy either. She stopped on the beach and watched as the dingy approached, her face solemn.

Lady Catelyn startled at the sight of the woman, but then with a sigh she continued rowing. Ghost growled, teeth showing. No, Jon didn’t need another encounter with the Lord of Light, for he was certain, these men and the woman served the flame god. The fanatics, like the red priestess who’s brought him back.

She brought you back.

You fool.

It all fell into place, and Jon began to study the woman. She must’ve been another red priestess, Jon thought, like the one he’s known. This one was even more beautiful in her of scarlet and crimson robes, with the orange flame embroidery, as if she was standing atop a burning pyre. She was indeed beautiful with her long black hair blown in the wind, pale porcelain skin with full lips, and on her face, the look of content, almost happiness.

She said something then, and two men moved for the dingy. Jon felt as if Ghost’s heart will smother them both in the throat, as the growling loudened, as the heart pumped at a rushing pace, so loud in is ear that threatened to block out any other sound in the head.

Where is the woman, the priest that brought her back? Jon swore never to use anyone again, but he didn’t apply that to her for a second. No, she could be used. She should be, because she brought him back once from death itself, and if there was anyone who could, Jon concluded, the red priestess was the one to know how.

The men reached the dingy, and one of grabbed the edge of it. Jon could see, they had flames tattooed on their cheeks. More of them grabbed the edge and they began to pull the dingy to shore. Two of them reached for the body. No, they won’t have the body, Jon argued with himself. No one will have the body, he wouldn’t give it even to the red priestess, who knows, perhaps she’d think to burn it! No one comes close to this body, Jon thought sternly, as Ghost growled. The men stopped mid-motion, looking at the woman, who merely smiled. A kind smile, even understanding. She offered a hand to Lady Catelyn, who hesitantly took it, and was helped out of the boat.

*****

It must’ve been an hour now, Jon thought. Ghost and Silver kept guarding the body, growling at any of them who even glanced their way. The dingy, half on the beach, half still in water, was lodged somewhat firmly, but Jon could feel the waves as they arrived to wash the beach. Jon wondered if the boat will break free at one point, and if it would, would they come to catch it before they inevitable get out to the open water? Then no one will ever help him return into his own body, for they all will die in this dingy. They didn’t really seem to care much. Lady Catelyn merely stood to the side, watching the men preparing and leading away their horses. The woman didn’t even attempt to speak to Lady Catelyn.

Then he saw her, Melisandre, he recalled the name. She stood atop the cliff, her red hair blowing in the wind, on her face clear worry. Recognition. Jon wondered what he should feel – he sentenced her to exile, and death, if she returned. And yet here they were, their paths crossed again in the most unusual circumstances, and sadly, Jon needed her to understand, to help. Her steps down to the beach were considerably more hurried than the other woman’s have been. She made her way straight to Lady Catelyn, and the two greeted each other. They knew each other, Jon realised, and judging by Lady Catelyn’s face, they parted on better terms than he did from this woman.

The dark-haired woman joined them, it seemed they spoke, before Lady Catelyn turned toward the dingy. Her hand reached for her throat.

“Ghost,” she said. But Jon wasn’t so sure of this idea anymore, trusting the red priestess with his fate now that he’s seen her, the gladness at the notion of it dissipated a while ago.

“Ghost,” she called out again, “Come here.”

Jon found it inevitably funny for the bad joke it was. She was calling for the wolf in this body, not the man. She barely knew Ghost; Jon was surprised she even remembered. Ghost was merely a pup the last time she’s seen him. The last time Jon had seen her.

“The wolves are guarding the body,” the dark-haired woman said. “We need them to leave it.”

Men reached for lances at her nod, but Melisandre stopped them, “No,” she said. “That wolf is the King’s wolf. Do not harm it. Do not harm them.”

The men put down their lances, as the dark haired waived them over. They had no fear, Jon thought, as they grabbed the edge of the boat, now fully dragging it onto the shore. Then, they surrounded it. There are only two wolves, Jon thought, how will they protect the body now? Lady Catelyn stepped to Ghost, scratching behind the ear. Then she joined her, Melisandre. “Leave the king,” she said as if she could order animals, “Leave it so we can try to help him.”

Jon looked for a moment, straight into her eyes. A decision had to be made, now if there was even a decision for him in this. What else could he do? He could sit here, trapped with Ghost, guarding his own body with Silver until it surely dies, and he’d be trapped forever. Or he could give it a try, for the first option was certain death.

Ghost whined as Jon painfully settled himself with giving up what little control he’s had over events, jumped out of the boat and Silver followed. Jon was nervous, so nervous about this all. We are always nervous about things we cannot understand or comprehend, he reminded himself, as Ghost kept whining, his paw kept patting the ground.

But what he saw wasn’t exactly alarming. Flame-tattooed men moved hastily, moved a few stones, laid down a few capes, as if they were creating a makeshift table. They then took the body from the boat, so very gently that Jon wondered what kind of prophecy they saw in the flames about it to handle it with such reverence.

“Is he the one, then” the dark-haired woman asked.

“Yes,” Melisandre declared, “The King in the North. He’s the one leading the fight.”

“It must be Daenerys Stormborn leading the fight,” the dark haired countered in surprise.

“No,” Melisandre said firmly. “Jon Snow knew of the threat long before even I met him. I told Daenerys Targaryen to hear him out, and Daenerys joined the fight. She’s heard him out.”

Suddenly she’s turned to the dark-haired woman. “Kinvara,” she said, “High Priestess. Hear me out, this man is key to our fight against the Great Other. I brought him back before, the Lord has reason to keep him alive.”

The woman thus named Kinvara raised an eyebrow at that, but after a moment she stepped back, her hand motioning toward Jon’s body, as if offering it to Melisandre. The flame-tattooed men all moved back, so did Lady Catelyn with an emotionless face.

Melisandre circled around the body, before she stopped in front of Lady Catelyn. “You’ve done well in preparing him,” she smiled, “Thank you, Lady Stoneheart.”

Stoneheart, just like Lady Catelyn introduced herself to Jon. Or perhaps, she was referring to her heart having turned to stone, Jon certainly thought that more likely when he recalled the dangling Freys hanging from a tree.

She turned toward the body. “Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon.”

Jon watched intently. So, this is how she did it, when she brought him back to life. “Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon. Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”  
Nothing happened. Jon wondered what the words meant, some kind of prayer of theirs, no doubt.

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.” She repeated, more intently. Still, nothing happened.

“Hen morghot, glaeson,” she repeated desperately, still, as Jon watched, nothing was happening, he felt absolutely nothing, if not the irony of the scene in front of him.

Melisandre reached out and touched the face, gently caressed it, realisation settling on her face. “He is not dead.”

Jon wanted to laugh so badly. Of course, he’s not dead! Why would he sacrifice a pack of wolves for a dead body! Did she want him dead? Can she not help if he’s not dead?

Kinvara stepped close, touching the face with the same gentleness. “He is not alive, either,” she said. “There is no spirit.”

Jon looked up at Lady Catelyn, sheer worry on her face. Perhaps she wondered the same, what if they can’t help?

Melisandre brushed her fingers through Jon’s curly hair, leaning so close that if Jon could feel on his own face, he would’ve felt the warmth of the air she exhaled onto his face.

“We have to help,” she whispered. “I know the Lord wants him to live. I know it.”

“Perhaps a sacrifice,” Kinvara said.

No way.

“He would never forgive it, he would protest,” Melisandre whispered. “We cannot offer a sacrifice for him.”

She looked around, at all their faces.

“He is neither here, nor having crossed into the darkness,” Kinvara spoke, “We are wasting time. Our work is not here, sister. We must leave him. He is lost.”

“No,” Melisandre turned, “High Priestess. This man, he is key, he is vital. We will not win our fight without him.”

“That cannot be,” Kinvara asked. “Daenerys Stormborn is the one. Her coming is the fulfilment of the prophecy. Born from smoke and salt, she woke dragons from stone, she made the world anew, it is her triumph over darkness that we must aid.”

“I know only this,” Melisandre argued, “I looked into the flames, when my faith wavered, I prayed for a glimpse of Azor Ahai. The Lord only showed me Jon Snow.”

“You’ve been wrong before, sister,” Kinvara declared.

“I am not declaring him Azor Ahai to you, High Priestess,” Melisandre said defensively. “I am not declaring anything. But he has a role. The Lord brought him back through me. I never had that power before, only him. The Lord showed me him, when I believed that all was lost, the Lord gave me him.”

“We all have our roles,” Melisandre stood straight, on her face determination, “The Lord gives us different tasks, each task but a small piece in his plan. Daenerys Stormborn is the one, but there are two in the prophecy. The one, and the sacrifice, like in the tale of old.”

She turned toward the body, “Azor Ahai will forge Lightbringer. This man, may indeed be the key, he knew of the threat, he fought it, longer than anyone.”

Lady Catelyn stepped forward, as if she wanted to speak, but must’ve changed her mind. It was enough to draw their attention though, all staring at her. At the wolves.

Melisandre stepped closer then, drawing her eyebrows together.

“There are many tales of old,” she said, as she knelt in front of Ghost, her eyes holding the gaze of the wolf. “About the Others, the children of the God of Night and Terror, but there are also tales about giants, and shapeshifters. The blood of the first men is no longer prominent, but it is still alive. It survived through ancient bloodlines, the Kings of Winter, the Starks... Greenseeers still live in the North. And if there are greenseeers,” She leaned close, “There are also wargs.”

Suddenly she stood, turning toward them. “His spirit is in the wolf,” she declared, “He must have warged into his wolf to avoid death, then somehow saved the body.” She glanced back at Ghost, “And I presume he’s been trapped ever since, for was he not, he would’ve woken the body. He would never abandon this fight. As long as the body is alive, the warging spirit can return to it. That is why the wolf so fiercely guarded the body.”

Inadvertently Ghost moved and gave a long lick to her hand. Jon didn’t even catch the notion before it happened. No, this was Ghost. He also wanted to be free, Jon thought. Understandably, considering the fate of his pack.

“See,” Melisandre said, “The wolf understands, because it is he.”

“True, there are such tales,” Kinvara spoke. “How will we return him into the body? If he is her Nissa Nissa, we need the spirit to return to his own home.”

Now, that is something, Jon thought. For all their visions in the flames, they were at the point in their knowledge where Reed has been at the start of the war. There’s the one promised, the prince, Azor Ahai, and he – in their version, she, Daenerys – must kill the love of her life. They were behind, far behind.

“Well, words didn’t work,” Kinvara declared, just as she leaned close to the body. They liked studying him in great detail, Jon thought. She took the face in her palms.

“They didn’t,” she whispered, “Because we asked from death to life. He is not dead. But there is a price, there always is a price.”

Melisandre once more turned to crouch down in front of the wolf, “Jon Snow,” she said, “I have done plenty of wrong, but I have done right with you. You must return to your body; you must will it.”

Don’t you think I know that? Jon yelled inside; don’t you think I tried? Don’t you think I wouldn’t have dragged it all the way here if I could have walked?

Suddenly a rush of energy grabbed him. Pulled him, not completely different to the pressure he felt, forcing him out into the nothingness, but this time, it felt as if it grabbed at him, reaching for him from the nothingness and pulling him with such force that he’s never felt before. It all went black so sudden, and then there was nothing. Jon felt nothing.

*****

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson!”

He could hear the water washing the shore, the wind blowing. “Hen morghot, glaeson!”

Jon opened his eyes. “I am here,” he whispered, as soon as he saw the sky, and he startled at his own voice. He wasn’t a wolf anymore.

Suddenly he sat up. The scene was not dissimilar to an attack, just before the moment it launched. The armoured men with the flame-tattooed faces were surrounding them, spear in hand. Melisandre stood beside him.

They all looked stunned at him, and then he noticed, as he turned to put his feet on the ground. The dark-haired woman laid at his feet. His eyes found Melisandre’s.

“What happened to you, your grace,” she asked.

“I am not your grace,” Jon hissed, “Water, first.”

A man stepped close with a flask, and Jon drank himself full.

“Battle,” he said as he finished, handing back the empty flask, “At the Gods Eye, we draw them into a trap there to kill the Night King, we know he was created there.”

At that, they were even more stunned, the lances in their hands dropped.

“You know very little, really,” Jon said to Melisandre, “Daenerys is not the one promised, I am. According to those who know more about such things than me, I am Lightbringer, apparently.”

“How do you know?” Melisandre asked with awe in her eyes.

“My father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” Jon said, “Born the day Summerhall burned down. My mother was Lyanna Stark, died on the birthing bed. Ice and Fire, there you have it. Forged Lightbringer, Son of Ice and Fire, whatever you want to call me.”

He struggled to find his balance even as he sat, while studying the faces around them. “We have no time for this,” He said then.

“Tell us,” Melisande asked, “We are here to fight the Other. He is the last of them, the children of the Lord of Darkness. We are not here as your enemy, but your friend, Jon Snow.”

“Targaryen. What is there to tell?” Jon asked annoyed, “We are at war with the dead, and we had a chance, at the Gods Eye. Their army gone, all we needed is my killing HIM. Then a bunch of black caped fools poisoned me and I blacked out. I warged into Ghost like you said. I take it, The Night King must’ve raised my own dead there and is marching south. And I have my armies waiting for me, wondering what in the seven hells is keeping me from them.”

Finally, he collected what strength he could muster, and stood up from the crates.

“What happened to her?” He asked, glancing at the motionless body.

“The kiss of life,” Melisande said. “She gave you the kiss of life. Why, I cannot tell, she must’ve felt it worth a try, and it worked as it would were you dead. You weren’t dead. Yet, now she is.”

Jon tried to understand, for a moment consider what she said before he waved it away. He’ll never understand them, he concluded that even before he could stand on his own two legs. Instead, he turned to look for Lady Catelyn.

She still stood at the same place, the two wolves still sitting beside her. Jon took a few steps, hesitantly, before he found balance and could be certain, then he went straight for Ghost.

“I am so sorry, boy,” he said as he knelt down, “I am sorry, I am so sorry.”

The wolf’s tale began to wag frantically as he gave a long lick on his face. Like everyone, Ghost forgave, always. Jon stood.

Lady Catelyn’s eyes were teary as they met his.

“I cannot fathom what happened to you, my lady,” Jon whispered, “How you could be here. Hells, I cannot fathom these people at all. But the things you said, they are not true, I want you to know it. All the horrors that came to us, they had nothing to do with you.”

She raised her hand to cover her throat, but Jon took it instead. “There is nothing to forgive, and if there ever was, it has been forgiven a long time ago. You saved my life. You saved this…” He looked over himself, “Thank you.”

At that, she squeezed his hand, as she nodded, her eyes full of gratefulness. Jon turned toward Melisande.

“You say you came to fight,” he said, and she nodded.

“Who are these men?”

“They are the Fiery Hand,” Melisande raised her head high as she explained, “The guards of R’hllor.”

“The Fiery Hand,” Jon’s eyes narrowed, “They are slaves, are they not? Dany will not like that.”

“Which is why the High Priestess freed them,” Melisandre countered, “They were given a choice. They chose the fight.”

“And where are we?” Jon looked around. South, definitely south.

“A day’s ride from Kings Landing,” Melisande answered, “I saw in the flames, a battle there.”

Jon gave her an unmistakeable look of annoyance. “Kings Landing burned,” she explained. “I saw the storm, I saw the dragons in the sky. I saw the dead, in great numbers, surrounded by the living.”

Jon chuckled. That’s the battleplan. “I’d avoid the burning city part, if I can,” he said.

Lady Catelyn pulled on his hand.

“The girls,” Jon turned to her, as he whispered, “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

He hoped it’s a promise he’ll be able to keep as she let go of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon was supposed to wake in the next chapter but I moved it forward and honestly, it was the hardest scene to write in the whole story - I hope I did it some justice!


	71. Kings Landing VI.

The camp was so clean, Sansa thought. They haven’t lived off the land for weeks on end, they haven’t fought any battles, she reminded herself as she watched the men leisurely going about their business, laughing, chatting. They spared her and Reed only glances, some nods. They didn’t know who she was, she concluded.

Finally, Humfrey stopped at the head of their column, and dismounted, so Sansa followed suit. Men came forth, led by a short, somewhat overweight, red cheeked and finely armoured one, no doubt Baelor Hightower. He was, Sansa concluded as the man stopped in front of her, awe in his eyes and grin on his face.

“The stories of your beauty do you no justice, your grace,” he said, “I am…”

“Lord Baelor Hightower,” Sansa finished the sentence. She suddenly realised, she’s ought to smile. Be courteous. “Thank you, Lord Hightower.”

For a moment all of them stood in silence, before Baelor ushered them forward, into the tent. He had a table, Sansa noted to herself. He had proper wine, too, his squire handing cups to them all. Sansa introduced Lord Reed.

The silence that followed couldn’t have been more awkward. She wondered if she’s supposed to lead this. How little she knew about such things as this meeting.

“Lord Hightower,” she said, hoping her voice carried the weight of a queen speaking. “Your brother tells me you mean to discuss your terms in aiding the North after the war.”

“Your grace,” Baelor smiled, for all Sansa could tell, an honest smile, “I had the perception the war has to be won first. Since I set my terms, there have been… developments.”

“Yes, there have been,” Sansa smiled, “Lord Redwyne has joined his forces with those of Daenerys Targaryen. They encircled the city.”

“And Jon Targaryen is presumed to have lost the battle at the Gods Eye,” Baelor nodded.

Sansa sighed.

“I don’t think it was Jon who lost the battle,” she said, “While I wasn’t on the battlefield, I saw clearly enough to see that he’s won it. Regardless, the assessment is correct, the dead are coming.”

“How many battles have there been in this war,” A tall, skinny version of Lord Baelor asked. Sansa merely gave him a glance, as he continued. “and you still didn’t manage to win, your country has been overran and now you come and…”

Baelor Hightower raised his hand furiously.

“My brother Garth apologises, your grace,” he said calmly, “He doesn’t know shit about war. He doesn’t know shit about anything.”

Sansa settled her gaze on the skinny man once more, cheeks burning red. “I understand, lord Baelor. I presume your brother also doesn’t know shit about rotting blue-eyed corpses, wights and white walkers, ice spiders and the like.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the man as she spoke, watching as his eyes narrowed by every word. She didn’t react. This man was scornful, pitiful. No doubt a brother, the knight perhaps. Much closer to Baelor in age than Humfrey, yet overlooked, Sansa was certain.

“Have you seen the dead, Ser?” She asked, her face unfazed. No answer came, of course, none could come. She gave him a warm smile, before she turned to Lord Baelor once more.

“Perhaps it is best if we discuss your terms, my Lord,” she said, and Baelor nodded.

“Well, in terms of aid,” he spoke, “I believe that it certainly feasible, your grace. As I advised Ser Davos, we aid our family. Therefore, we ought to become family. I propose a marriage, I have a most suitable choice for you, your grace, in my brother.”

Sansa could hear Reed shuffle in his chair beside her, yet her eyes didn’t leave Baelor, as he continued, “You see, I understand the consequences of a long and gruesome war fought on northern soil, but your request is not without risk. Familiar ties could I believe greatly reduce the risk.”

“That is all?” She asked.

“Unfortunately, that is all I can discuss with you, your grace,” Baelor said sternly, “I was hoping to treat with Jon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. There is a matter…”

“Redwyne,” Sansa nodded, and Baelor smiled.

“Yes, Redwyne,” he said. “And the Lordship Paramount. My old father before he passed, he offered the protection of Hightower to the Tarlys, your grace. It doesn’t sit well with Lord Redwyne I am afraid.”

“Lady Olenna was a Redwyne,” Sansa remarked, and Baelor gave her a wide smile.

“Aunt to Lord Redwyne, your grace,” he explained, “and mother to his wife. And seeing that my Lord father saw it fit to make his views known, betrothing my big-mouthed brother” – he gestured toward Garth – “to Talla Tarly even, his claim of the Lordship Paramount has to be challenged by me. The threats made against Hightower and our people compel me to petition your cousin, your grace, for the Lordship Paramount. Albeit, I presume Lord Redwyne already asked his aunt.”

“I presume he did,” Sansa leaned back in her chair, “And I presume he received no answer.”

“His men joined the Targaryen forces,” Humfrey interrupted.

“Yes, and I am certain he did that being told the same as I will tell you, the decision cannot be made without my cousin, because it concerns the Tarlys,” Sansa nodded, without a glance at Humfrey, “Shall we discuss my terms?”

“Let us hear then,” Lord Baelor declared.

“It is quite simple,” Sansa smiled, “You have twenty thousand men, I ask that you join the war against the dead.”

“I’ve already committed to that, your grace,” Baelor nodded.

“I’ve heard,” Sansa smiled, “And I am glad that you set correct priorities, my Lord. Considering the rest, I ask for aid to the North during this winter, and I ask that should the North be attacked, Hightower provide military support. Of course, I offer the same, should Hightower be attacked, the Wolves will howl all across the reach, Lord Baelor.”

“The Wolves?” Garth scoffed.

“Yes, the wolves,” Sansa nodded, “One of our armies, with a commander like you’ve never seen before. And our direwolves.”

“You fight with direwolves,” Garth gave her a look that spoke clearly, he thought her mad.

“Targaryens ride dragons into battle,” Sansa remarked, “The North rides into battle with direwolves, Ser. Have you not heard the stories of the Young Wolf? My cousin, Jon Targaryen, he is called the White Wolf.”

“He is a Targaryen,” Garth argued.

“And he is a Stark,” Sansa countered.

“You would send wolves…”

“That’s enough, Garth,” Baelor hissed.

“There is one more thing,” Sansa raised her head high, glancing to the side, to Reed, Davos. “One I am certain will not cause you much trouble, considering your hopes for the Lordship Paramount. Considering what it means. I ask that Hightower swears fealty to my cousin, Jon Targaryen.”

“We already owe fealty to the Iron Throne like everyone else,” Baelor argued, "Your cousin is the heir."

“Yes, and Cersei Lannister sits on the throne,” Sansa smiled, “I ask you to swear fealty to Jon’s person. Not a chair of swords, and I ask you to uphold it, even if it is not Jon who takes the throne. You ask for Jon’s protection, if we speak plainly, relying on his familiar ties just as well. I ask for your fealty to him in return.”

“You cannot make this agreement without…” Garth began but Baelor slammed his fist on the table.

“Seven Hells!” he yelled, “Can’t you keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, you fool!”

Garth stormed out of the tent.

“Forgive me, your grace, for my brother’s behaviour,” he said calmly once more. “If you don’t mind me pointing out, it sounds very much like you don’t expect your cousin to stake his claim. Why wouldn’t he?”

“Alliances,” Sansa began, “Are complex matters, Lord Baelor. We are at war. Even in a fight for survival, each one of us has to see what that survival will mean. My cousin has united the freefolk and the northmen, knights of the Vale, and the Targaryen forces with those of Jaime Lannister. Such an alliance would not be possible without the willingness to find common ground, which is why I told you, I am glad to see that you have your priorities straight.”

Baelor nodded, deep in thought. “Alliances sometimes fall apart,” he said, “Nothing is as strong as blood. Which is why I told you, we aid our family.”

“As we do ours, Lord Hightower,” Sansa said.

Baelor nodded. No one spoke, they all sat, Sansa wondering what Howland Reed made of this, and Ser Davos. Finally, Lord Baelor stood.

“Your grace,” he declared, “I agree to your terms, in return to you agreeing to mine.”

“Do you understand that I cannot promise you the Lordship Paramount,” Sansa asked, still seated.

“No, you cannot,” Baelor smiled, “which is why I ask that you agree to my terms. Familiar ties, your grace, blood rans deeper than any oath a man can take. Your family shall become my family, and my family shall become yours.”

“And you will fight in this war,” Sansa pushed, “Be it tomorrow or the day after, or even today, you fight beside us.”

Baelor nodded, “Hightower will fight for the living, your grace.”

Then Sansa stood, and Reed stood with her. Baelor nodded to Humfrey, so he stood as well.

“You’ve met my youngest brother Humfrey, your grace,” he said, “It is he whom I propose, to take as your husband and king. Humfrey is a dutiful man, a loyal man. He will share in your burdens.”

“Your grace,” Reed leaned close to whisper in her ear. Sansa slightly shook her head instead. Her eyes settled on Humfrey Hightower. He was visibly embarrassed by the scene, cheeks once more blushing red, as he fiddled with his fingers on the table. He glanced up at her finally. Sansa just watched him.

So, he was the man, indeed. She knew it, as soon as she saw him, she suspected it. As soon as he knelt, and kissed her hand, she knew it. He all but confirmed it by advising her that he wasn’t charged to discuss terms.

She took in his sight once more. He was quite handsome, she concluded, after all. He had soft features – nothing to prominent, she told herself again. And he was tall. Well built. For all she’s learned about him, he was courteous, but not shy to speak his mind, and neither was he stupid.

He wasn’t Joffrey, there was none of that insane wildness in his eyes that used to spark in Joffrey’s. She recalled his smile she saw before; it was nothing like the grin she saw so many times on Ramsay’s face. When he stood in front of her, his face spoke nothing of the confidence that she recalled on Ramsay’s face, being introduced to her. Sansa let out a sigh as her eyes returned to Lord Baelor.

“If I may speak,” Lord Reed said interrupting her thoughts. Saving her from her thoughts, as she felt. Baelor merely nodded, slight surprise on his face.

“The wedding,” Reed said, “Should my Queen consent to the match, the wedding is to be done in the North, once the wars have been won and we all returned to normality. Perhaps when spring comes.”

“What better time for a wedding than spring,” Baelor mused. “First we have to win the wars, I agree, but I would insist on the wedding soon after. In the North, if it please. If my beloved brother can wait a little more for such a beautiful bride, that is!” Sansa saw the shot of angry look Humfrey sent towards Lord Baelor.

“I accept your terms, Lord Baelor,” she declared, her voice rang firm and clear. It was done, she reached out her hand, wondering how she didn’t even conclude this in her thoughts. As if she’s accepted her betrothed as soon as she met him, or even before. Baelor’s face turned into one big grin at her gesture, as he reached and grabbed Sansa’s forearm. “Welcome to the family, your grace,” he said, and Sansa returned his wide smile. It was done.

*****

Tyrion stood here in the wind, all by himself, wondering if it was even worth it. He waited for the better half of the hour now, surrounded by fresh Redwyne troops. He amused himself, if he stands here much longer, there’ll be no work left to do to the dead for the winds will freeze him to death. Finally, the gate opened, and Qyburn walked out, complete lack of emotion on his face.

“No guards today?” Tyrion asked.

“There are ten thousand men here sworn to Queen Cersei,” Qyburn remarked.

“Yes, they have surrounded the city.” Tyrion scoffed. “I am quite unsure how you could conclude of such loyalties through that.”

“The Queen is indeed glad for their arrival,” Qyburn remarked, ignoring the edge of Tyrion’s words, “and the protection they represent, albeit, I must add, we’ve not seen any dead men approaching the city.”

“Tell me Qyburn,” Tyrion remarked, “since you consider yourself a rational man. Has your queen, or you, really become this delusional?”

At that, Qyburn sighed. “In any case, there are more forces between the city and the dead men you claim to arrive, my Lord.”

Tyrion laughed. “Yes, there are,” he nodded amidst his laughing, “More meat. Do you understand what a siege is, Qyburn?”

The man gave him a frustrated look.

“I had to ask,” Tyrion excused himself, “For your Queen’s capitol is now under siege. Do you know what that siege will do to your Queen’s capitol? You should ask her; she has some experience of what lack of food and supplies does to the people of this great city.”

“A siege was not part of our agreement, my Lord,” Qyburn noted.

“No, our agreement included the release of Jon Targaryen,” Tyrion confirmed, “I’ve not seen Jon walk through the gate. I only saw you walk through the gate. Therefore, the city is under siege, because, frankly, I am running out of options. It seems to me, that your Queen doesn’t understand the situation clearly, while I am trying to hold back these armies from sacking her capitol.”

“That would be quite inconvenient,” Qyburn remarked, to Tyrion’s sheer shock. “These armies are either subjects to the crown, or exiled, in violation of that judgement. Some of them are here at our Queen’s pleasure which they so callously abuse.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “YOUR Queen,” he said, “sounds to be what they call her. A Mad Queen for she must’ve lost her mind.”

“Not in the least,” Qyburn said nonchalantly, “We fully understand that these armies are rebels. The Northern armies, and the army of the Arbor…”

“Oh you just said they are protecting you by encircling the city,” Tyrion chuckled, interrupting what he judged to be a futile explanation. This whole discussion was a futile engagement.

“I tell you what, Qyburn,” he said, “Because, as you said, you are merely a mouthpiece of your queen. Go back to your queen and tell her. There’ll be carnage if we don’t see Jon Targaryen before sundown, walking out through that gate, unharmed.”

He turned to leave, but as he took his first step something stopped him. A mere cold breeze, he thought as he walked further, and then he stopped just as suddenly at the first time. Taking a deep breath, and one more. He turned.

“The weather is getting colder, suddenly,” he called after Qyburn. The man turned.

“True, my Lord,” Qyburn nodded, “It is winter, after all.”

“This is not the winter, Qyburn,” he called out. “Take a deep breath Qyburn, watch the air you exhaled dissipate. That, is not winter. That, is the army of the dead nearby.”

“It is a natural phenomenon, my Lord,” Qyburn remarked, “I never thought you to be a superstitious man.”

“I am not,” Tyrion said, “And this is nothing natural. You know it too, Qyburn, for you are a rational man, a practical man. Release Jon Targaryen, before it is too late. Open your gates and ring your bells, so we know that the city is ours to defend.”

He turned and walked away. As he glanced back, he could see Qyburn still standing where he let him.

*****

“Your grace,” Sansa heard behind her. She sat in the grass, watching the city, the men camping outside. Redwyne men. She turned with a sigh, at hearing “May I?”

Humfrey Hightower, her now-betrothed, looking every bit of a lost pup, stood beside her. After a moment, she offered for him to sit beside her, as if it wasn’t the least desirable thing she wanted.

“I just wanted to say,” Humfrey said as he sat down, “I didn’t ask for this. I mean, you are beautiful it’s true, and I am lucky, I know I am, but it’s not because I asked for it.”

“I know,” Sansa responded with a complete lack of emotion, without taking her eyes off the men, the city ahead.

They just sat in silence. She was keenly aware; she should perhaps be kinder. This man has done absolutely nothing to earn such distrust from her. Perhaps it was being so close to this city that made her so weary. From the camp, she couldn’t see it, she could even pretend it wasn’t here. But from here, it stood same as the day she left it, as the day she arrived. What a stupid girl she was back then. But it was no fault of the man sitting beside her with puppy eyes, certainly hoping for a sign that his life and hers hasn't just become condemned. That this may work out.

She remembered the joy of the thirteen year old girl who dreamed about Aemon the Dragonknight to come and rescue her from the grey waste of the North, about a prince who’ll love her, marry her, make her his queen, when she was told of the betrothal to Joffrey. How she begged her mother, tell father to agree.

“A man can only be judged by his actions,” she whispered, “Jon told me, always look at a man through his actions. Then you know how true they are.”

“I will strive to prove myself,” she’s heard him say, and she turned, genuine smile on her face. Perhaps all she needed to hear was this. “To you, I will prove that I am worthy," he nodded. Sansa studied him. Freckles, he had freckles. Barely visible dots on his cheeks. Long eyelashes, that curled around his sea-blue puppy eyes.

“I believe you,” she said softly, just as she heard a man clearing his throat behind them. Lord Reed stood at a respectful distance. Humfrey stood and bowed deeply to her.

“I shall tell my brother to get going,” he said, “If we sit here for much longer, we’ll miss the battle we vowed to fight.” Then he left, and Reed immediately took his place.

For a while, he said nothing, and yet, his presence seemed more comforting than any words that could be said.

“You knew,” he whispered finally.

“As soon as I laid eyes on him,” Sansa smiled. “It was in his eyes, blushing cheeks, nervous voice… I know this was the only thing I could give, Howland.”

Reed sighed.

“You were every bit of a Queen in that tent,” he said then, “Ned would be so proud. Gods, he’d weep if he saw and heard you, he would be so very proud.”

The mention of Ned Stark warmed her heart, to Sansa’s surprise. It didn’t come with the sharp pain she knew, or the fury she used to feel whenever she thought about what happened to her father, to her whole family. It came instead with silent recognition.

“We have to move on,” She whispered, “We all have to make our way.”

“We do,” Reed agreed, “But I want to see you happy.”

Sansa reached for his hand and squeezed it, as she gave him a warm smile. He’s got so emotional, she thought, like a father giving away his daughter. Reed loved them, as if they were his own, she understood then. For Howland Reed, nothing he did was about power, power of the Hand, or power of gaining influence, no. He did everything because he loved them. He did what he could to protect them.

“It could be worse,” she said then. “He could be that fool skinny brother of his.”

Reed laughed aloud. “Thank the Gods he is not!”

“No, he is quite pleasant, compared,” Sansa remarked, still smiling, “It could be much worse, Howland. We’ll be fine.” She opened her arms and wrapped them around a surprised Howland Reed. As much as she needed a hug, she felt the man needed it more, and after the moment of surprise, she could feel his arm holding her just as tightly as she did. It was reassuring. She found; she also needed a hug. She needed Howland Reed by her side.

“Your grace!” She turned as she parted from Reed, at the hasty call. Humfrey Hightower stood at distance, “Your grace, you better come!”

She jumped at once, and Lord Reed stood as well.

“What is it?” She asked, before she glanced back. Nothing has changed around the city, yet as she turned, she could see – her breath dissipating around her face.

“We’ve shot down a raven,” Humfrey explained, “Baelor says you need to know.”

She already knew, she thought, as her stomach clenched into a tight knot.

*****

“I am sorry for your friend,” Jon said, as he mounted his horse. His eyes found Melisandre’s. “The High Priestess, what was her name? Kinvara. You could’ve tried to bring her back.”

“I could’ve,” Melisandre said calmly, as they began to move. Jon glanced back; a thousand man moved into a column behind them. “And you would have no horse. You perhaps would have no body either, except that of the wolf.”

Jon gave her a surprised look.

“Don’t be sorry, Jon Targaryen,” Melisandre said, “She would’ve never believed who you are. None of them do, they believe Daenerys Stormborn to be Azor Ahai reborn. Only I know the truth. It was to be this way.”

“No, she kissed me to bring me back,” Jon mused, “Albeit, so Dany can kill me. And I wasn’t dead even.”

“I cannot tell what trapped you,” Melisandre said, “I cannot tell a lot of things. I find, I know very little. But I know that you are the one. I don’t regret bringing you back.”

“No, but you’ve done plenty of wrong,” Jon remarked, “You’ve said so yourself.”

Melisandre gave him a questioning look.

“There is something similar about you and me, Jon Targaryen,” she said. “We fight the same fight; with whatever resources we have. We make bad decisions, but never with bad intentions. Sometimes our decisions take their time to show themselves for what they truly were. I am certain that you have regrets, just as I do.”

Jon felt the grip on his heart at that. This red priestess burned alive a girl of ten, because she believed that was the only way. She believed the sacrifice will aid Stannis Baratheon, and she believed Stannis to be the one promised, only the Gods know why. She spoke truly, Jon had to conclude. He’s had plenty of regrets. He may not have burned little girls alive, but, as he reminded himself, death does have a finality to it. His own bad decisions had no finality to them, they plunged others into situations where they paid the price for his own actions, again and again, while he kept on, without considering the damage he’s caused. Anything seemed worth to pay, for the goal of defeating the dead, especially because he wasn’t the one paying. No, she was right, they were quite similar indeed, but he was worse. As he saw her, with her regrets and lessons learned, in his eyes she deserved the clemency that he felt he didn’t.

“He’s not forgiven,” Jon said lowly, “Ser Davos.”

“There are some things that can never be forgiven,” she said lowly. “I have many regrets, it is true. I was wrong, many times over. She is my biggest regret, the princess Shireen.”

“Perhaps tell that to Ser Davos,” Jon smiled.

“There is no need,” Melisandre said, “Some things should never be forgiven. I will not see Ser Davos again.”

At that, it was Jon giving the questioning look.

“I’ve seen in the flames,” she said, looking ahead. “I’ve seen that I will die in this land. I’ve seen that I will die today.”

Jon wondered, truly, what that could mean. How that could feel, perhaps not dissimilarly to when a man rides into battle. Perhaps it’s quite alike to how he’s been feeling ever since they began this journey. How many times did he feel that he’s going to die that day? Yet he kept coming back, if with a little help.

“What about Lady Catelyn,” he asked.

“She used to have a direwolf with her,” she said then. “I presume she lost it to the dead.”

“It is cruel,” Jon declared with a sigh, “For her to live all alone, like that. She’s full of regrets, it is just cruel. I wouldn’t want to live like that.”

“She had a reason to live,” Melisandre said, “The Lord had a purpose. I wouldn’t judge, I believe her purpose was to save you.”

“It was still cruel from you to bring her back,” Jon said sternly.

“I didn’t bring her back,” Melisandre explained, “I told you, I never had this power, except with you. Thoros of Myr, it could’ve been no one else. It is ironic. He was the failure among us.”

“He brought back Beric Dondarrion six times,” Jon remarked. “He and Beric both died at Winterfell, during the battle. They held the door that led to escape.”

Melisandre sighed. “He fought this war,” she remarked, “while we were waiting. The rut of the litter, the fallen drunkard.”

“Ned Stark used to say, a man is only as much as his deeds,” Jon said, “or something similar. And it applies to us, as well. If we keep at this pace, we’ll miss whatever battle there may be fought.”

He turned to Melisandre then. “I saw him,” he said, “The Night King. The Other as you call him, he was there when we escaped the North with Lady Catelyn. He’s ahead of us, I say we should catch him.”

Melisandre nodded solemnly, as Jon kicked the side of his horse.

*****

They reached Baelor’s tent, but the Lord was not there. Sansa began to grow impatient, as a storm began to settle. Dark storm clouds were brewing above them, dense they covered what little light the sun has provided. She shivered, as she looked around the solemn faces. Those who knew, looked resolute. Those who didn’t, looked worrisome, but all of them wore the stern, sorrowful mask of men who knew, nothing that comes can be good.

“Your grace,” she heard Sam whisper beside her and tilted her head to listen.

“I just mean to say,” Sam whispered, “Humfrey, he is my friend, my childhood friend. The only friend I have besides Jon. He’s a good man, your grace.”

Sansa had to smile at that. Poor Sam, trying to do good, as always. “If you say so, I believe it,” She whispered, just as they saw Lord Hightower approaching. His face no longer the cheerful Brightsmile, instead he wore an expression of sheer dread.

*****

Jaime rushed through the corridors, straight to the solar. He found her looking out the balcony window. She didn’t venture outside, the storm that was brewing, darkening the sky at quickening pace with wind gusts that tore at her curtains have prevented her.

“There’s been a parley,” Cersei turned to him as he entered. “Our brother claims this storm is not a winter storm. It’s the dead he claims, they are coming.”

“I would say the same,” Jaime said softly, “I’ve seen their storms, at the Wall, at Winterfell. This is not natural, it’s too quick, too harsh.”

He watched his breath dissipating in the air. “This, is not natural,” he repeated, more to himself as it dawned on him. They’ll all die today.

“Yes, Tyrion did his best to convince Qyburn of the same,” Cersei sighed. “It’s growing old. This threat of the dead, surrender or the dead are coming. If they are coming, they’ll come anyways, Jaime. Whether or not the city surrenders makes no difference to it, at all.”

“Then perhaps you should surrender,” Jaime said, watching as a smile formed on her face. A pitiful smile.

“If I don’t surrender, the dead will scale the walls,” she said, “It’s nothing to them, you said so yourself. If I surrender, Daenerys Targaryen will take the city, then the dead will come and scale the walls. What is the difference?”

“Jon is the difference,” Jaime hissed. “Jon and the fact that if you surrender, the city will be theirs. They’ll defend it against the dead, they don’t want a million more to join the army of the dead, Cersei.”

“And how will the defend it against the dead?”

“Dragonfire,” Jaime said. “They’ll rain dragonfire on them, before the dead reach your walls. That is what Jon would do.”

She nodded, seemingly in thought. Moments passed, Jaime wondering what else he could say, watching as her eyes scaled the sight in front of them, a city going about its ordinary day. Sure, there were armies outside the walls, sure there was a heavy storm brewing, and men and women were rushing around, get home before the sky opens. They didn’t seem fazed by the armies outside their gates. Perhaps because they knew, they could do nothing about them at all. The city walls stood between them, armed with dozens of ballistae and thousands of men. It may have seemed reassuring, but Jaime knew, it was nothing.

“I changed my mind,” she declared suddenly, reaching for the bell. A guard rushed into the solar, and she turned.

“Open the Gate of the Gods, the Lions Gate and the Old Gate,” She said. Jaime’s jaw dropped. “Let those armies inside the city.”

“You surrender,” he whispered, but she didn’t respond, she didn’t even bother to look at him.

“Ring the city bells,” he ordered the guard, “So they know there’ll be no resistance.”

The guard startled, and Cersei nodded in agreement, without even looking at the guard. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the city, as the guard rushed to relay his orders.

*****

“This came with a raven we shot down,” Baelor whispered to Sansa as he handed her the scroll. Her eyes scanned the small parchment, before she handed to Reed, and the parchment began its journey from one man to the other, and the one beside him, until it reached full circle. No one spoke, there wasn’t much they could say. In truth, there were no words to describe what they felt, no ideas, no clever plans. They’ve been outsmarted.

“An army of rotting corpses coming on the Goldroad,” Baelor recalled the message word by word, “They encircled us, they are scaling the walls. The Gods save us.”

“On the Goldroad,” Reed’s eyes narrowed, “Where did the raven come from?”

“The Stony Sept,” Baelor answered, “Loyal to Cersei Lannister. They intended it for her.”

“No doubt they are marching in that army by now,” Davos remarked, and many of them nodded in agreement, even Baelor Hightower.

“You have a map,” Reed asked then.

Baelor merely waved for his squire, and the boy laid out the map on the table. They quickly moved to see, as Reed began to make sense of the message.

“They were here,” he pointed at the Stony Sept, “Meaning, they took to the road, likely before it crosses the mountains.”

“The Westerlands,” He declared, “From the Gods Eye, they must’ve turned to Riverrun, that’s why we had no sign of them for days.”

Sansa gasped. The Riverrun, where her uncle was believed to be.

“Then south, claiming the Westerlands,” Reed continued, “Which makes sense. Lannisport, all of them keeps nearby relying on its trade, and the people none the wiser of the threat.”

“We destroyed their army,” Sansa whispered, “So they went to gain a new one.”

“Exactly,” Reed nodded.

“The Reach is open to them,” Baelor remarked, “All they need to do is cross the woods, and they reach our own lands. There’s nothing to stop them.”

Sansa looked up, at Baelor Hightower. He cannot turn around now, she begged inside.

“There’s something to stop them,” Reed argued, “Jon can stop them. He did it at the Gods Eye, every battle we fought, they lost, tremendously. I don’t think they’ll turn toward the Reach, not in great numbers. They’ll come for us, and for Kings Landing first.”

“It makes no sense,” Baelor argued, “They have undefended lands south of them. Our army is here, we left our lands…”

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Reed looked up, “I know what’s going through your mind. But they’ve been hunting Jon from the time before they crossed the Wall. I remember the talk about a walker sent to kill him at Hardhome. They came for him at the Long Lake, Winterfell, and they came for him to Greywater Watch. We are here, not in the Reach.”

“But if they need meat for their army,” Baelor argued, “Surely they’ll take the chance. Our people…”

“I don’t think they will,” Reed gave the man an understanding smile, “I think he’ll want to finish this. He’s seen what we can do, with Jon leading us. He’s seen his army annihilated. I think this is tactical. He brings an army, to end us, because those lands are undefended. Once he’s done with us, he could take them at leisure. He will come here; he won’t turn South. He wants Jon. He knows Jon is the only one to stop him.”

“Edric has to be told,” Sansa interrupted, “Whatever they do besides, they are clearly marching on Kings Landing, and not where we expected them to. They’ll hit the city from the West.”

“I’ll ride back, your grace,” Davos declared.

“No, I will,” Humfrey Hightower spoke for the first time. “Ser Davos had enough riding these past days. I’m faster.” Sansa’s eyes settled on her newly betrothed. Did he volunteer out of valour? Or did he volunteer out of desperation to prove himself to her?

“Ser Davos and Lord Reed are better suited to take the Queen to safety,” Humfrey continued, causing Sansa to chuckle.

“There’s no safety,” She hissed.

Baelor nodded, but Humfrey’s eyes were on Sansa instead, “If the Queen agrees,” he said lowly. She agreed.

“My Lord Baelor,” they heard the guard behind them.

Baelor turned, as Sansa watched Humfrey Hightower leave besides the guard, still wondering what drove the man to risk himself as their messenger.

“The city gates have been opened, Lord Baelor,” the guard declared, shaking Sansa from her thoughts. She didn’t believe it, but sure enough, she could hear, too. The bells began to ring.

*****

Tyrion stood still, watching the open gate. Listening to the bells. Waiting.

“Where’s Jon,” he’s heard the Queen beside him, and shook his head. He was asking the same question from himself. Where’s Jon.

“Cersei would never surrender the city,” Lord Varys remarked.

“Unless it is her only way to survive,” Tyrion argued. “Jaime has done his bit.”

“What is that,” Daenerys asked, eyebrow raised.

She turned toward Daenerys, “I told Jaime, the only chance is for him to convince Cersei to surrender. That there’s no other way for her to survive this. I also told him to seek Jon’s release.”

“Well, Jon is not here,” Daenerys repeated. All Tyrion could do was shaking his head.

“No, he is not,” he said, “Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”

They stood for a while longer, until the black dragon landed in front of them.

“What are you doing,” Tyrion called out, “They have surrendered.”

“She didn’t release Jon,” Daenerys said as she climbed on, “I mean to see why.”

“You mean to see,” Tyrion repeated, “Not to attack.”

“No Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys sighed, “Not to attack. I mean to scout the city.”

With that she took flight.

*****

They watched the dragon circling above the city. Baelor seemed somewhat stunned at the sight, until Sansa realised, he’s never actually seen a dragon before. He’s never seen Daenerys Targaryen before.

“What is she doing,” Baelor asked.

Sansa studied the men under the walls. None of them were moving. No orders were given to enter Kings Landing.

“She’s doing what Jon would do,” Reed remarked, “She’s scouting.”

“The city surrendered, the gates are open,” Baelor argued. “For all we know, Jon Targaryen may be in their camp by now.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “No,” She declared. “Cersei would never surrender. Never.”

*****

The dragon landed exactly on the spot where he took off, and Daenerys walked off its wings. It still amazed Tyrion, the confidence and ease with which she did it. Even Jon began to ooze the same confidence atop the green dragon, causing Tyrion to marvel every time he saw. But Jon was still not here. He shook his head in response to the Queen’s questioning eyes.

“And?” Varys asked.

“Nothing amiss,” she said, “People going about their business. Garrisons on the walls, at rest. Guards around the Red Keep, nothing I would deem unusual.”

There must be something, Tyrion thought, urging himself to think.

“We take the city,” he’s heard Daenerys. Behind him, Grey Worm turned to leave. The order has been given.

“Perhaps we should wait,” Tyrion argued desperately. It felt so very wrong.

“The storm suggests otherwise,” Varys countered. “If we take the city, we can mount a defense from the walls.”

“They climbed the fucking wall!” Tyrion yelled out. “This is nothing to the dead! We take the city, and it’ll become our coffin. We need the open field to fight them.”

“We need Jon Targaryen to fight them,” Varys said calmly, as Tyrion’s begging eyes settled on the Queen.

“I agree,” Dany declared with a stern face, “We take the city.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday someone thought this will "inspire me" - that I am some kind of robot writing this story at their command...  
> "...we sit through chapters on chapters of filler and wasted time, what just to get more meaningless words, with no intent to finish the great story started in the beginning! It has made no sense since the initial fight on the Gods Eye, and Jon turning into a lump of meat for 5 chapters, get on with the story on stop the bs!"
> 
> My friend, you didn't get the story at all, the "BS" is actually vital to the story. And, if I may even say so, I don't "get on with the story" (definitely not the one you seem to be reading or hoping for, as it looks) at anyone's command. I wrote a chapter every day this past week, except yesterday because I needed a treatment for The Bells to be able to finish this one. Based on your "encouraging" (NOT) review, I didn't feel sorry for not finishing it, not at all, you've only encouraged me not to try.
> 
> Do me a favour, if I may even ask or voice MY opinion here. I am not writing for you, or at your command. If you don't like my story, don't read it. It's really easy, just because you read it, that doesn't mean you have the right to disrespect the Author, or order her around, or demand she changes HER story.
> 
> Now that this has been addressed - The Bells are already ringing! I have some nasty stuff in store muhahahahaaa


	72. The Bells I.

 

It took time. Even after she stopped scouting the city, she gave up flying around above it atop her dragon, it took time. But finally, Cersei could see them. They were so distinguishable – slender leather-clad men, or men covered in furs, long haired and long bearded, bigger than any man Cersei knew – except the Mountain of course. She watched the Dothraki riding around, laughing to herself at how people screamed at their sight. They rode around on the streets in large groups. Men and women were rushing to escape the streets.

This is what Daenerys Targaryen brought to you, this dread, Cersei thought. They looked like animals. Do Dothraki bathe? She had to chuckle – she didn’t really care, she found. Of course, Daenerys Targaryen would know. Wasn’t she wed to a Dothraki before? How much was she? Fourteen perhaps? A khal, she recalled, their equivalent of a king. Until someone defeats the khal and becomes the equivalent of a king. There is no birthright in that, so what happens to the widows of khals. Cersei imagined they get taken by the new khals, for only that seemed animalistic and brutal enough in her mind, to be associated with men looking like this.

If Daenerys Targaryen intended to reassure the people of Kings Landing that she meant no harm, she certainly didn’t go about it the way it should be done, which made Cersei want to laugh inside. The girl knew nothing of how to do this right. If there’s even a way. What does it matter how it’s done? What does it matter if one comes in peace? Hells, what do the people of Kings Landing matter at all?

Dirty, in appearance and in their mouths, they were still talking about how the Queen walked naked the streets, from the Sept right to the gate of the Red Keep, how they threw shit and all kinds of waste at her. It clung to her skin; she could smell it for days afterward. How Qyburn struggled to cleanse her feet, fearing for rot to set in from all the uncleanness, and how those cuts kept aching for weeks afterwards whenever she was on her feet. These people deserve no consideration, Cersei thought bitterly.

How naïve this Targaryen girl must be, how old is she? Twenty-something, Cersei concluded. She knows nothing. She would learn, if she ever managed to take this city and claim the Iron Throne, oh she would learn that the people don’t give two shits about her. They would look to criticise her, to scorn her, to OWN her. She would learn then, and when she reached Cersei’s age, by then Daenerys wouldn’t be so willing anymore to consider the people of this city. IF Daenerys ever reached her own age, Cersei concluded.

She wants her nephew-lover, she wants her father’s Throne. Come and get it, Cersei smirked. Come and see; and learn.

Her eyes caught sight of some unsullied. A few dozen, as they grouped on one of the squares, just near where the Sept once stood. One was giving orders to the rest, Cersei studied him for a moment. They all looked the same, in their tight leather breeches and their leather short coats. Cersei wondered about them as she watched them. These men have no cocks. Do they have balls at the least? Or does all of it get taken? Do they sound like little girls when they speak? Do they get plump when they grow old, like the Spider? Do they grow old even?

She chuckled to herself once more. No, these ones will never grow plump and old.

*****

People were indeed screaming, running for their lives. No one draw a sword at them, no one pulled a dagger. Alien looking leather-clad dark-skinned men, and wild-looking long-haired riders took over their streets, while a black dragon kept watch as it circled above the city. It was larger than they ever imagined Balerion the Dread could’ve been, or at least now, it seemed so. Indeed, they were running, screaming, falling and others stepping on those who have fallen, then screaming again.

“Go home!” The shouts could be heard all along the streets. “Go home!”, the unsullied army that took over the city kept ordering them. Empty the streets. Go home, into your houses. Pray for your lives.

*****

“Where’s your commander?” Humfrey shouted as he rode into camp. Men were running around, shouting to each other about the storm. Gods, Humfrey realised – they all knew what this storm meant. How little did Hightower know? How little they contributed? That’ll change now, he concluded, as he shouted again, “I come from the Queen, where is your commander?!”

“Who knows,” a red-bearded, skin-headed man stepped in front of his horse so suddenly, he struggled to halt it. “Perhaps in that fucking city behind you, boy. I remember you, you’re a Hightower.”

Humfrey jumped off his horse. “I am looking for the commander who currently leads,” he hissed, “I know that’s not Jon Targaryen. I am looking for one named Edric.”

“You’re in the wrong camp, boy,” Griff grinned, startling him completely.

“This is the camp of the Golden Company,” Griff said, patting Humfrey’s shoulder at the sight of his sulken face. “You’ll get used to it, that is, if we survive what’s coming with this fucking storm. Edric’s on the other side of the plain, with the northern armies and the Wolves.”

“Who do you serve,” Humfrey asked then, and Griff raised an eyebrow.

“Jon Targaryen,” he declared, “Always.”

“The queen sent me to let you know,” Humfrey rushed the words, “The dead, they are coming on the Goldroad in great numbers.”

“What are you talking about?” Griff asked suspiciously.

“They’ll hit the city from the west,” Humfrey began to explain, “Not from the North, they are marching from…”

“How do you know?!” Griff interrupted, shaking Humfrey with both hands holding his shoulders, as horror overtook his face.

“A raven” Humfrey explained, pushing the hands off his shoulders. He noticed the golden armbands on the man’s wrist. “We shot down a raven from the Stony Sept. Said dead in great numbers were coming on the road, they were scaling their walls.”

Griff froze for a moment, before he cried out, “You, boy,” to someone behind Humfrey. “Ride to Edric Snow across the plain, tell him, move his fucking army in an instant, ride behind our camp and catch the dead in the rear! Tell him they come on the road from the west!”

Humfrey didn’t have to look to hear that the boy jumped on a horse, riding out.

“What is the plan?” Griff asked. For the first time since the encounter, Humfrey suddenly felt like the boy Griff called him.

“I don’t know,” he said lowly, “I rode out to get the commander.”

“Stupid boy!” Griff hissed, turning from him, “Get me a fucking horse, now!”

*****

“Your armies are in the woods on the northern side of the road,” Baelor remarked, intently looking at the map as if it would tell any better than it already did. “I will withdraw mine to the southern side, if you mean to hit them on the sides…”

“It’s best to allow them to reach the plain,” Reed remarked, “It’s easier to fight them on the plain. Let them get ahead, and we ride out on both sides.”

“And encircle them,” Sansa nodded, “Like Jon would.”

“How,” Sam asked, “Jon would leave an army at the front.”

“Redwyne is perfectly positioned, it seems,” Sansa remarked, her eyes fixed on Baelor Hightower. Lord Hightower nodded, with a slight grin in the corner of his mouth.

*****

“Cersei, remember what I told you,” Jaime whispered. She kept watching the city, now truly overtaken by Unsullied and Dothraki, not even sparing him a glance.

“Cersei, listen to me,” Jaime tried, to no avail.

It was so sudden.

He ducked and turned toward the deafening sound, the gush of air almost blowing him back from the balcony.

Flames, green flames rose almost as high as the balcony. And again, and again.

Explosion after explosion, throwing wood and stone into the air, green flames breaking free.

Screams filled the air, as more and more explosions took over the city. Jaime’s stunned eyes followed them as they swiftly conquered Kings Landing.

He straightened finally, his gaze returning to Cersei.

That look. The look of victory sat firmly on her face, the smirk she’s allowed herself every single time she won, every time someone suffered at her hands.

“You were saying?” She asked, before she sipped from her cup.

Jaime wasn’t saying anything, he was looking for the words, but he found, there are no words to describe what he’s seen.

“Fire, Jaime,” Cersei smirked, “You said, dead are killed by fire.”

*****

Tyrion didn’t believe his eyes. He often found lately that he didn’t believe his eyes, but this was different from any of those times. As if his heart skipped a beat, and every beat that was supposed to come after it, when the first explosion sounded. As if he turned to stone, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t look away, as the city was overtaken by the green flames.

“Your grace,” he’s heard Varys calling out behind him, “Your grace!”

Turn.

Finally, he swallowed back his heart from his throat, and turned.

She was pale as if all life has left her, her eyes fixed on the flames, their light sparking in her violet gaze.

“Your grace,” Varys stepped to the Queen, “Your grace, breathe,” he said. Tyrion wondered if he’s ever heard Varys speak so gently, so softly before. Then he wondered why he wondered about this, of all things.

“Your grace,” Varys called once more. She blinked, and looked at the city again, before she aimed to turn toward the voice as far as Tyrion could tell. She crumbled, Varys reaching for her, helping her up by holding her elbow.

“Your grace,” he spoke, “Here,” He handed her a flask.

“Drink, your grace,” he said softly, before he looked past her, “Get a chair here, now,” he ordered. At least someone had their wits about them, Tyrion thought. What a surprise, and how little of a surprise, if anyone, Varys would have his wits about him during a complete annihilation of their armies, in one swoop.

He looked around. How many unsullied were with them, a thousand perhaps? There was no Dothraki in sight. Gods, he thought. Cersei just won this war. He shook his head in his disbelief. He should’ve known. He should’ve remembered, he knew of the caches of wildfire.

He looked back at the city, explosions still going off amidst the screams of people burning alive. They screamed as the skin and flesh melted off their bones, Tyrion knew. He couldn’t imagine a worse way to die.

At least they won’t rise again, he told himself. Yes, Cersei resolved one small problem. They won’t supply the army of the dead, that’s for sure. No dead army will scale the city either while it burns. Oh, Tyrion, you fool.

He glanced back at the queen, now seated. She no longer watched the city burn. She watched the flask in her hand, as if somewhere else, dazed. Tyrion’s heart broke into a thousand pieces at the sight.

*****

Finally, Sansa swallowed. Breathe, she told herself, breathe, as her heart seemed to do its damnest to prevent just that. Beside her stood Baelor Hightower, stunned. On her other side, Lord Howland Reed. It is him she turned toward now.

His eyes were empty. “She must’ve entered the city,” Reed whispered, and Sansa nodded.

“I knew Cersei would never surrender,” Sansa whispered, “Never.”

*****

“Your grace,” Tyrion finally found it in himself to move, to rush to his Queen’s aid.

He stood in front of her, and yet, she didn’t look at him. Her eyes were firmly on the flask.

“Your grace,” he called out once more, and she sighed. She looked up, slowly, until their eyes met. All the hate in the world was in those eyes, Tyrion thought, so intent that inadvertently he took a step back. She no longer needed to be told to breathe, as the sight of him reminded her. She inhaled, faster and faster as her face got overtaken by fury.

“Your grace’: Tyrion reached out his hand, trying to figure anything smart to say, anything that wasn’t meaningless. Suddenly, a dragon flew past above, so lowly, he fought the urge not to seek cover, lay on the ground, its shriek deafening.

“Your grace, don’t,” he said hesitantly, and understanding flickered in those violet eyes burning with hatred and fury. “Don’t,” Tyrion begged. Suddenly she stood, her eyes leaving her, following the dragon instead.

“Jon is in the Red Keep, your grace,” he argued. “Your grace… Daenerys. Jon will die if you do this.”

She merely walked past him.

“Jon is there,” he yelled after her. “Jon is there, and Jaime is there, and…”

She stopped and turned, the look in her eyes shutting Tyrion for good. He’ll never stop her, he understood.

*****

They watched as the black dragon flew past above the flames and circled around. It began to breathe fire in the sky, as if it had no aim. There was nothing to alight, after all. The city burned, anywhere they turned, behind the walls the green flames reached higher and higher, now mixed with flames of orange and amber. As if the walls were the sides of one giant cauldron, and in it, the bodies of a million boiled and melted amidst the flames, dancing at the rhythm of the still sounding bells.

The sound of the bells became erratic, grew more and more desperate, mixed with the cries of countless souls, screams of men, women and children burned alive in this melting pot.

“Just like her father,” Baelor said lowly, “The Dragon Queen proves true to her blood.”

“That is not dragonfire,” Davos hissed beside him, to Baelor’s surprise. “That is wildfire. I know it, I was on the Blackwater during Stannis’ attack when they burned it.”

Sansa just listened and watched. She was wondering when her tears will come. In the end, it wasn’t Daenerys’ impatience that will kill Jon, she told herself. No, it was Cersei’s callousness, the evil Sansa knew so well. That, and Daenerys’ fury, she noted, watching as the dragon turned toward the keep, breathing fire, straight at what used to be the Tower of the Hand.

They were interrupted by the sound of horses, and she turned away from the carnage like the others. Humfrey returned, and with him, Jon Connington with a face just as stunned and grim at the sight, as their own.

*****

This could not be. This could not be. This could not be.

Jaime kept chanting it to himself, again and again, as he watched the city burn. He could hear behind him Cersei and Qyburn whispering. He couldn’t understand them, not that he tried.

How many years have passed? He couldn’t tell. At first, he dreamt of it every night. He could still recall, the same dream that haunted him every single night. The pyromancer left, as he stood beside the throne, listening to that mad voice, shouting again and again, “Burn them all!”

“Burn them all!”

As the city exploded, and the mad king slowly took to the balcony. And he watched, oh he watched. Explosion after explosion he welcomed with laughter wilder and wilder, and he shouted, “Burn them all!” amidst the screams, and even after the screams died out, he just kept on laughing, and shouting, “Burn them all!”

And those screams, Jaime recalled, as the tears began to burn his eyes, they were the same screams he could hear now, as men, women and children… little children burned.

*****

The earth stopped shaking, the pieces of stone stopped falling. Arya ventured out from under the cliff that Clegane ushered them to, and began to climb once more. Behind her, Brienne and Sandor Clegane looked up toward the sky.

“What?” Arya hissed.

“The smoke,” Clegane said, “Can’t you see the fucking smoke?!”

“The city is burning,” Brienne remarked.

“Yes,” Clegane hissed, “The fucking city is burning, the fucking Dragon Queen and her fucking dragons…”

“All the more reason for you to fucking climb!” Arya yelled at him. “What do you think will happen to Jon if Daenerys burns the city?!”

Brienne moved, beginning to follow Arya’s lead she began to climb.

“Fuck this,” Clegane hissed, “Of all things, fire. Fucking fire.”

He moved to follow Brienne. They could hear him behind them, still cursing, “Fucking fire. Fucking dragons, and dragon queens, of all things, I had to ally myself with fucking Targaryens!”

*****

“So much for Redwyne in position for us,” Baelor scoffed. He was nothing of the Brightsmile he had been. The air began to fill with smoke, falling ash. He knew just like the rest of them, it wasn’t just ash of burned wood. No, it was ash of burned flesh.

“We have to focus,” Sansa urged Baelor, and his gaze returned to the map in front of them, then Griff’s face, deep in thought.

“You move your armies south, you say,” Griff glanced at Baelor, and received the reassuring nod he’s expected.

“I’ve already given the order,” Baelor said, “And I must tell you, Redwyne is moving his armies out of the way. If you turned you’d see it yourself.”

At that, Sansa and Griff both turned.

“They can’t have known,” Sansa remarked.

“No,” Griff agreed, “Which means, they are either rushing to protect Queen Daenerys, or they are turning to a new winning side. Or both.”

“Which means her armies truly entered the city,” Reed said lowly, “and she’s lost them.”

Sansa swallowed hard at that.

“We still have the right plan,” Griff declared, turning back toward Baelor. “I take the northern side. I’ve sent a messenger to Edric to ride around my camp, that should allow him to catch them from behind, in the woods. We don’t need Redwyne. The fire will complete the circle all the same.”

A shriek.

Baelor looked up, his eyes searching for sight of the dragon.

“This is not the dragon,” Sam said, her voice trembling. “They are here.”

Baelor looked at him for a moment, then looked around, at all of them, one by one. All their faces were telling him the same.

“Blow the horns!” He shouted as he rushed away, “Three blasts, blow the horns!”

“So it begins,” Sansa whispered.

“Lord Reed,” Griff’s voice was calm, resolute. “You, Ser Davos, and Samwell Tarly will take the Queen to safety.”

“My guard will go with you,” Humfrey added.

“You, and your guard,” Reed corrected but Humfrey shook his head.

“No, Lord Reed,” he argued, but his eyes were firmly on Sansa, “I will return to the northern camp, and fight alongside the North,” he declared, adding hesitantly, “If my Queen agrees.”

Sansa nodded. What else could she do? We need every man we can get, Jon used to say. As she left following Reed and Ser Davos, but she stopped for a moment in front of Humfrey Hightower.

“Thank you,” She whispered. For what she thanked him for, she couldn’t tell, but suddenly, a thought came to her. She unbuckled her sword belt and handed Longclaw to Humfrey. “This is Longclaw, my cousin’s sword. The Stark sword. Valyrian Steel, it’s better than fire, better than anything to kill them. He’s killed white walkers with this sword.”

His eyes filled with awe, with gratitude. Griff, Davos and Reed silently watched the scene, stunned at what transpired.

“He’s not going to need that,” She’s heard Baelor Hightower behind him. All of them watched as Baelor Hightower laid a wrapped long package on the map. He gently unwrapped it, and a sword emerged.

“This is Vigilance,” he said. Sansa glanced at Humfrey, standing beside her, and all their faces, one by one. They watched in awe as Baelor unsheathed the longsword, light of fire dancing on Valyrian steel. All, but Howland Reed. Reed merely looked to the ground, solemnly.

“This is the ancient sword of Hightower,” Baelor said. “It has not seen fight since the death of my uncle, Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to Aerys Targaryen. I knew this will be the time to introduce the world to Vigilance once more.”

He turned toward Humfrey, as he sheathed the sword once more, “I meant to give this to you,” he said softly. “If all this didn’t work out, if we didn’t find you such a comely wife and I’d be bound to be burned by dragons in the Red Keep alongside that Mad Queen Lannister, I meant for you to have it.”

“I can’t,” Humfrey whispered, “You are Lord Hightower, Baelor, you should wield this sword. And you,” he turned toward Sansa, “You are the Queen in the North, you should not give away your sword either.”

Baelor smiled lovingly at his brother.

“I am not much of a swordsman,” he said, “Never been. Certainly not one like you. Take it and kill these dead fuckers. Then return it to me.”

He turned toward Griff then, “I send my brother to fight beside you because that is what his foolish heart desires. See to it that he doesn’t lose life or limb, or Vigilance.” With that, he trusted the sword into Humfrey’s hands without as much as a glance at him.

Sansa buckled her belt on her waist once more. Her eyes settled on Reed, still solemn, as he watched Baelor Hightower, once more studying the map. They were about to leave, but Reed didn’t move.

“Lord Baelor,” he began, and Baelor looked up, straight at him.

“Once the wars are won,” he said, “And you and I are sitting side by side at a wedding feast, we will have a long, honest conversation, Lord Reed.”

His voice was soothing, kind even. Reed nodded and walked past the table. Sansa turned back to Humfrey.

“I wish you good fortune,” she said, wanting to say more but she found, there really wasn’t anything else she could say.

“Stay safe, your grace,” he whispered.

There’s no safety, Sansa remarked to herself. She decided not to tell him, she just turned and left the clearing, following Reed. The fifty of the Hightower guard moved as one to follow her.

*****

“How many men do we have?” Daenerys asked, her face as if frozen in her anger, her voice cold as ice.

“Your guard,” Tyrion said lowly, “Thousand Unsullied. Ten thousand of Redwyne’s, their Lord recalled them to support your guard, your grace.”

“Dothraki?” She asked. Tyrion could only shake his head. Her face turned, her eyes began to… fickle, Tyrion thought. As if they were watching someone running around in front of her, until she shut them, pressed them close.

She swallowed. “Grey worm?” She asked as she opened her eyes.

At that, Tyrion had to swallow, “Grey Worm has led the forces into the city, your grace.”

It seemed to him as if her hand began to search for something, so he rushed to pull her chair closer.

“I am not feeling well,” she said, her eyes flickering once more.

“The shock, your grace,” Tyrion said softly, “We all…”

“No,” She turned to face him. Her eyes kept flickering, she kept shutting them, focusing. “I am not… feeling well.”

“What do you feel,” Tyrion asked suspiciously. Shock doesn’t make one’s eyes…

“As if the ground was,” She whispered, “Moving, as if…” She took a deep breath and stood from her chair. Her face was no longer that of sheer fury – no, fear has overtaken them.

“Help,” Tyrion whispered, as he watched her taking a few steps forward, slowly, unstably, “Help,” He called out once more, as she stumbled and fell on her knees.

He could hear Drogon shrieking in the sky, as if answering his call.

“Help your Queen!” He shouted, as he reached for Daenerys, her small fingers trying to find him. Could she not see him?

Her breathing became shallow and rugged, her eyes filled with dread.

Varys rushed, “Your grace,” He shouted.

He took her from Tyrion’s arms, resting her in his arms. “What have you done?” He hissed, glancing at Tyrion.

Nothing… but the word stuck in Tyrion’s throat. He listened as her breathing evened. Taking a few steps back, he watched as Varys gently laid her down on the ground. The dragon shriek in the sky was nothing like he’s heard before.

“What have YOU done?!” He cried out.

Varys slowly turned away from her, facing him. “I’ve done what’s needed to be done,” he said calmly, before he looked around.

“Guards!” He shouted, “The Hand of the Queen! Take him!”

*****

Sansa glanced west. She could see the storm cloud, the mist that covered the road, the fog blocking her sight to see in the distance. She urged the horse to hurry. At any moment, she thought, at any moment they may rush forth from that mist and fog.

Her intended was very likely to die in this fight, she thought. And if he won’t, it’ll be very likely thanks to the Valyrian steel in his hand, for he has to be worse than she was, if he couldn’t make it through the battle with a longsword like that.

But would anyone make it through the battle? Without Jon, what chance did they have?

Every man we lose, he’ll gain, Sansa reminded herself. The odds were never in the favour of the living, she thought grimly. With Jon gone… The longer they fight, the more they give to the army of the dead.

Perhaps they should’ve ran. Perhaps they should’ve taken their armies south, and leave Kings Landing to the dead. Let Cersei face them, deal with them, alight HER CAPITOL with wildfire as they overrun this shithole of a city as Jon would call it…

Perhaps there was still time to give the order…

But where would they go? IF they escaped to the South, where would they go?

Old Town. They should’ve left for Old Town, they should’ve never stopped under Kings Landing. Cersei would’ve had no choice but to release Jon. They would’ve reached Old Town safely. Sure, she would be in the same situation as far as her future was concerned, but they would’ve gained so much more.

The Citadel has the largest library in the world, Sam said. Surely, among the countless scrolls and books there must be something hidden away, something that could tell them how to defeat the dead. Even if Jon was lost to them.

And if not, she could’ve taken to the sea with her armies, with the Wolves. And Hightower. She could’ve had her people escape. She could’ve taken them to Essos, just like Jon made her promise that she’ll do. And her people on Dragonstone. They could’ve settled in the Hills of Norvos like Edric and the Wolves, for centuries.

They were far beyond the borders of the North, and they were still here. Would Jon want them here? Jon would do anything to save their people. Sansa felt like a failure. The Queen who lost the North. The Queen who led her people to certain death. There was nothing to it now. It’d be too late to give the order, it would never reach Edric. They could never cross the Goldroad before the dead arrive. And if they did, it’d be only a matter of time, if the dead took the Westerlands like Reed Believed.

Her teary eyes turned toward the city once more, as she heard the sound. The dragon shrieked, but it wasn’t like it used to. No, this was a shriek she knew from somewhere else, dreadful and desperate, not unlike a cry, it was full of pain and desperation. She heard a dragon shriek like this only once before. She stopped her horse, watching as the dragon emerged amidst the smoke. It flew erratically, it dove and rose in the sky, shrieking but never breathing fire. It wasn’t attacking the Red Keep anymore. It was circling like this above the city, above the camps to the north of it.

Sansa only saw a dragon like this once before. When the battle turned, at the Gods Eye. This is how Jon’s dragon cried, when Jon’s been taken.

“Your grace,” she heard Reed behind him, “Sansa.”

“Daenerys is in trouble,” she whispered, “The dragon cries for its mother. The way Rhaegal cried for Jon.”

Reed nodded with a solemn face. “We have to get you away from the battlefield, Sansa.”

“There is no point, Howland,” she said, head held high. “We either live or die here. There is no point in running.”

She turned her horse around, taking in their solemn faces.

“Jon would want to have you safe,” Ser Davos remarked.

Yes he would, but he wasn’t here to give the order. Suddenly Sansa felt resolute, at peace with it all. If they survive, if they win, she’ll have a brave man for a husband, she’ll lead her people through winter – to rebuild, no, to build a new North. And if they die, then she’ll die knowing she didn’t cower from the fight. It really wasn’t the matter of commands and armies and houses and alliances… It was a matter of will. Of bravery, to do what’s needed to be done. That was the will to take her stand.

They won’t run, Sansa thought. She won’t run, she’s been running all her life, since the day she left Winterfell she's been running. She’ll stand and fight.

*****

Jaime turned away from the balcony. The smell of burned flesh began to turn his stomach, the ash in the air began to burn his lungs. He watched as Cersei sat back at her desk, seemingly writing something. As if the city wasn’t burning to ashes. As if there wasn’t a battle starting at any moment. Jaime could hear the horns sounding the three blasts clear enough, even though the screams in the city below.

She wasn’t writing anything, of course she wasn’t.

“Cersei, do you hear the horn?” Jaime asked, as he dumped himself into the chair in front of her table.

“Yes?” She looked up, “Some kind of battle call I presume, what of it.”

“One blast is a friend returning, a ranger of the Watch,” Jaime explained in an empty voice, “Two blasts sound when enemy approaches. Three blasts… Three blasts mean the dead.”

She looked up once more, raising an eyebrow, as if wondering why he bothered her with this information.

“They are here, Cersei,” Jaime nodded.

“Three blasts,” Cersei said with a sigh as she leaned back in her chair, “So the dead have finally arrived to kill each and every man in the armies outside our walls that we’ve not killed yet. Good.”

“Again,” Jaime argued, “Do you think they will stop at the city walls?”

She smirked, “The biggest fire the world has ever seen burns between them and us,” She reasoned, “When they begin to walk through fire, I’ll begin to worry.”

The dragon shrieked, close to their balcony and Jaime looked. This wasn’t a dragon shriek he’s gotten used to. No this was… Rhaegal’s cry, Jaime thought. This was the way the green dragon cried, as it kept looking for Jon on the battlefield.

Suddenly it was so clear. Jon captured, taken at the Gods Eye. The armies would’ve come to Kings Landing, demanding his release, because he’s been taken. Who’d take a dead man, a prince, because Jon was a prince, in front of that prince’s commander? Anyone who wanted that commander to believe the prince alive. The commander would tell others, and all those who hoped for the prince to be alive would demand his release.

They had no other enemy, but the dead, and Cersei. The dead take no prisoners, play no games – at least, they fight fairly, they meet armies on battlefields, at least since they’ve crossed the wall that’s what Jon forced them to do. Jaime was certain, that they didn’t fight battles north of the wall, of course, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t abduct and manipulate their enemies either.

No, such ways were the Lannister ways. Lannisters pay their debts by hiring and coercing others to do their bidding. Cersei didn’t blow up the Great Sept all by herself. Tywin Lannister didn’t extinguish the whole northern army, with generations of Lords, their King, Queen and Queen mother by himself, he wasn’t even there. The Red Wedding they call it, and the North lost the war attending it, while Tywin didn’t even have to lift a finger.

Cersei has learned from the best. As Jaime saw, it was so clear now that he even wondered why he didn’t see it before. Why even Tyrion didn’t see it before, the cleverest man Jaime knew. Besides Howland Reed, for Ned Stark used to call Reed the cleverest man in the North, and as far as Jaime was concerned, it wasn’t just of the North.

Jon was dead, Jaime was sure of it now. They merely took the body, to make sure hope survived. And it did, marvellously, as all of Cersei’s enemies marched on HER capitol. They came close, and she played her little game with them. She opened the gates and blew up the Targaryen forces. No doubt in the chaos that followed, she’s got to Daenerys as well. Not in person of course, she had her tools. She had Qyburn. That is why the dragon cried, flying around aimlessly above the burning city. It lost its mother.

In time Cersei would get Sansa Stark as well, she always wanted the Stark bitch as she called the girl. A horn sounded the three blasts once more in the distance.

Cersei’s problem was, she underestimated the enemy. The dead won’t be as easy to defeat, they can’t be poisoned, betrayed or bought with promises. Jaime watched Cersei, once more writing something. She was actually writing something. He thought of asking what it was, her last testament? But he found he didn’t care.

His eyes scanned the room, turning toward the door just in time it opened.

“Your grace,” Qyburn called out. “Your grace I am afraid I bring bad news.”

Cersei looked up; eyebrow drawn high.

“Two of the guards have been found dead,” Qyburn continued. “Their throats have been slit.”

Jaime wanted to laugh. So much for the biggest fire the world has ever seen! The dead were already here, he thought, how ironic... All it takes is one body, he reminded himself. He found that he didn’t mind this news at all, he felt the elation to welcome them.

Suddenly, a guard rushed in, straight to Qyburn, whispering into his ear. The Hand’s face sunk.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he said lowly, “One more has been found stabbed.”

At that, Cersei stood.

“I would suggest your grace that we take you to safety,” Qyburn reached out an arm as if emphasising his words.

She didn’t think twice, she rushed from the table toward the door, and the mountain turned to follow. Jaime stood with a sigh. As he walked out, his eyes caught sight of a sparkle. The light of the flames outside were dancing on a small blade on a chest. He lifted it up, admired for a moment how the light fickle on the steel. It’s better than nothing, he thought, as he took it, swiftly inserting it into his golden hand, covering the handle with his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the first of multiple parts of how this ends... It doesn't tell much lol, sorry for that... Except confirming what almost everyone suspected re: what Cersei is up to, I thought, you guys will know anyways, if knowing nothing else of what's coming that's something you probably are certain of so just get it out of the way...


	73. The Bells II.

“There, we take that path,” Edric pointed at the map. Jon Connington and Humfrey listened intently. The three blasts sounded once more to the south, as the cold breeze hit them. Edric stood straight. Just then, three blasts sounded once more.

But this wasn’t the same.

“What the fuck,” Edric hissed, just as it sounded again. Humfrey turned to face them, only to see the shock on their faces.

The horn sounded again. “This is not Hightower,” Edric hissed, “This is my own horn! They’re coming from the north!”

“So much for plans,” Griff remarked lowly.

“What now,” Humfrey asked.

“We fight,” Edric hissed, “And we die. But we take as much as we can with us, so when that spike-headed fucker raises our corpses, he won’t gain an advantage.”

Humfrey had to swallow hard at hearing that. So much for happily ever after.

“If they went around,” Edric narrowed his eyes as he stared at the map, “They can’t circle back and hit us from the North.”

“What are you thinking,” Griff asked.

“Remember at the Gods Eye,” Edric looked up, hope in his eyes. “The rut marched straight into the trap while his army stood to the east, at the ready.”

“You think the rut from the Gods Eye is hitting you from the north,” Griff remarked.

“There’s no other way,” Edric said, “Or perhaps I want to see something where there’s nothing to see. But look at it – if he circled back our scouts would’ve seen them, a whole fucking army!”

Suddenly, his eyes saddened.

“The Queen sent the freefolk back to the Gods Eye,” he whispered. “If the dead are coming, and they are not… Gods, I’d hate facing Tormund on the battlefield.”

*****

Humfrey watched as the army settled into position. The horn sounded once more, the three blasts, so expected by now that he would’ve found it more unusual if they missed the signal. All around them, the Golden Company was in position.

They left Edric to fend for himself, against what he called the “rut”. Griff didn’t necessarily agree, Humfrey could see, but at the same time, there wasn’t much to do about it. The scroll they caught was clear – there was an army on the Goldroad, due to arrive any minute. Humfrey was glad that Griff didn’t turn his army around and leave that mass of dead to Hightower to deal with. It just made it easier, this whole situation – being of Hightower, fighting alongside northmen.

Except they weren’t northmen. These were Essosi sellswords. He could’ve figured it out if he bothered to really look, why they dress so hilariously in their grainsack breeches, why they have their tents decorated with skulls – even more so, their command tent was made of cloth of gold, as far as Humfrey could tell. But he really didn’t put it together until Griff crouched down beside him, patting his shoulder. The man really enjoyed patting his shoulder, calling him ‘boy’. As he crouched down, Humfrey could hear the dozens of bangles on his wrist, like tiny bells singing. Gold bangles.

“How many,” he asked.

Griff merely glanced down on his own wrist, “If we survive today, I tell you, boy.”

Humfrey had to chuckle at that. Boy.

“Even better,” Griff said then, “If we ever find Jon, ask him how many namedays he’s seen. That’s how many bangles I have.”

“Who are you,” Humfrey asked surprised.

“I told you boy, the name’s Griff,” he smiled. “But, since we may as well die today, I am Jon Connington, former Lord of Griffin’s Roost. I served Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“You escaped,” Humfrey remarked, “After the rebellion.”

Griff had to laugh, “No, boy,” he grinned, “The Mad King named me his Hand, me of all people. I was a shit commander, I lost against Robert Baratheon. Then he exiled me. I joined the company, around the time… he lost his throne.”

“But now you’re back,” Humfrey smiled.

“Now I am back,” Griff nodded, “Once more serving a man who deserves it.”

“You brought the Golden Company,” Humfrey remarked, “That’s a feat.”

“No,” Griff’s face sunk. “I wasn’t even leading the company. The Iron Bank contracted the company to fight for Cersei Lannister. Then Jon sat down with us, proved who he was, showed us one of these dead men. Enlightened us about a few other things, and well, the company saw it fit to turn. Fight for something that’s worth fighting for.”

Humfrey nodded. “What about that other commander, Edric,” he asked, “I hear some refer to him as Lord Edric.”

“The Queen and Jon made him Lord of the Dreadfort,” Griff shrugged, “Though he calls it Snowfort. He’s a Snow.”

“A bastard of the North,” Humfrey translated it to himself, but Griff laughed.

“Perhaps, the great grandfather of his great grandfather was once a bastard born in the North,” he said, “Edric is every bit a fucking professional sellsword as any man around you. I know it, I fought him on the battlefield before.”

“But you fight for the same side,” Humfrey didn’t understand.

“How many sellsword companies have you heard of?”

“The Golden Company,” Humfrey began.

“We’re the most famous, we don’t count,” Griff grinned, “Go on.”

“The Windblown, the Stormcrows, The Company of the Cat, The Second Sons, The Company of the Rose…”

“There you have it,” Griff interrupted. “What do you know of them?”

“Nothing,” Humfrey said hesitantly. “I travelled once to hire the Windblown. I didn’t hire them, mind you, they were under contract. I wanted to be a sellsword when I was a boy.”

Griff raised an eyebrow at the revelation. In the end, he decided to ignore it. “The Company of the Rose was formed by Northmen, men who chose exile over bending the knee to Aegon Targaryen after the Conquest. They call themselves Snow, they consider themselves bastards of the North. They’ve been allowed to return, once the North declared independence.”

They waited in silence then, Humfrey wondering about it all.

“What is your story, boy,” Griff asked then, and Humfrey gave him a confused look in response. “While we wait, we may as well converse. Get acquainted, considering we’re on the same side. I like to know the man who’s supposed to have my back in a fight. I like to be certain that they do. You ought to be on the other side of this road, boy.”

“I am not,” Humfrey scoffed. “Sansa is my Queen, as she is yours.”

“Did I miss an oath of fealty in your camp,” Griff grinned. “Reed is something else, but if he’s achieved that, I’ll be truly surprised.”

“Lord Reed spoke very little,” Humfrey said lowly.

“So how is Queen Sansa your Queen, then,” Griff indulged himself probing the boy, “You’re a Hightower. That’s quite far from the North.”

“She’s my intended,” Humfrey whispered.

He didn’t look at first, but as he felt Griff’s staring eyes on him, he couldn’t not look. The man’s face was confused, stunned even.

“What,” He hissed, and Griff chuckled.

“Just my fucking luck,” he remarked, “Of all men in this fucking war and all of them armies, how many? Four, Five? I find beside me the one man upon whom hangs the future of the North. Fuck me, now I have to keep you alive as well as myself.”

“You’ve never seen me fight, Griff,” Humfrey hissed.

“No, I never did,” Griff remarked, “And you’ve never seen an army of dead fuckers. Don’t kid yourself, Humfrey Hightower, this is not some tourney joust. We’ll be fucked here today.”

After this, they didn’t converse anymore. Humfrey fumed, he couldn’t tell why. It’s not like Griff – Jon Connington -  didn’t speak true. At least, finally he called him by his name. That was a start.

“There,” Griff whispered suddenly, pointing toward the road.

Humfrey looked. He could barely see, but in the distance, he could swear, there was movement in the fog.

*****

“My lord,” a man called for Baelor’s attention, albeit only a whisper, and he looked toward where the guard pointed at. On the road.

Sure enough, in the distance, there was movement in the fog. It was more and more visible with every moment, as strange sounds filled the air. Shrieks.

Then he saw. One, two, a dozen, a hundred. Rotting corpses were rushing in sickly motion. More and more appeared from the fog, as if from behind a curtain, in endless column of mass, rushing forward shrieking.

Not one of them turned. They passed on the road just under where Baelor was hiding. After a while, he realised he has to breathe. He forgot to breathe. His heart forgot to beat. When it did, the first thought that came to mind wasn’t a thought at all. It was the primal instinct of dread. He turned, to return to his men. They ought to get ready, he hoped that not one of them will read on his face what he felt, what he’s just seen.

*****

“How many dead have you found,” Jaime cried out as he rushed after them. Cersei was rushing alongside Qyburn, following the Mountain. They just reached the hall of the map. It made Jaime think for a moment, how Cersei had this painted, because it was theirs. How she walked around on the map, listing their enemies.

She has dealt with them, almost all of them. She’s dealt with the Tyrells, with his help. And the Sand Snakes with Euron Greyjoy’s help. Cersei had her resources, Jaime told himself once more.

“You ought to burn their bodies,” he called after them, “The dead you find. You know what happened at Greywater Watch? They brought in a dead body, one of their own. It rose and killed some, then those rose, and soon enough all of them were dead and risen. You should burn the bodies!”

Cersei stopped and turned. For a moment her eyes were fixed on Jaime, before she turned to the two guards who were waiting in the hall, “Burn the bodies of the dead you find,” she hissed to the guards, who turned and rushed away, but another replaced them just as they would’ve began to move.

Two more dead guards have been found. Two more had to be burned.

*****

“Not yet,” Arya hissed, her hand on Sandor Clegane’s forearm.

“They will barricade themselves away,” Brienne whispered.

“There’s three of us,” Arya turned to face her, “How many guards you think will rush in as soon as they hear the sound of swordfight? I said, not yet.”

She turned back, watching as they departed, hiding in the darkness.

“We should’ve burned the guards,” Brienne whispered behind her.

“Yes, we should’ve,” she said, as if she meant it. She didn’t mean dead Lannisters rising against Cersei, not in the least. After they left, for the few moments before they could abandon their hiding place, she watched the ash falling, slowly covering up the footprints in the thick layer already fallen. This was the remains of burning men, she knew.

*****

Back in the corridor leading to the small pier, the two guards found those slain. Their throats cut, neither of them breathed. The men turned, looking for a torch, but the one closest was stuck. They took the few steps back on the corridor, and one of them tried to remove the next one. As he did, he turned.

He froze in his place, mid-motion.

“What is it?” The other hissed, facing him but the man’s eyes were firmly fixed on the end of the corridor. On the body that slowly rose, until it stood straight. The man’s jaw dropped, as the dead opened its eyes. They were ice blue, like frozen water.

His companion turned, just in time to see as the dead rushed for him, took him by the throat, and hung him on the handle of the torch his companion just removed.

He was alone now. He threw the torch at the dead man, just as the other reached him. He drew his sword, but he was no match, he was too slow, too stunned. He soon laid dead on the ground, his body waiting for his next turn of service to begin.

*****

“Wait,” Cersei stopped. She walked to the window, and Jaime followed. He wondered how many stairs were ahead of them still, until they reach the ground. But as he followed her gaze, he could see why she stopped.

The dead arrived. It wasn’t just a threat, a tale Cersei didn’t believe, not anymore. She watched intently as the army of the dead rushed forth, out of the woods.

Suddenly Jaime realised. “They come on the Goldroad,” he whispered. Cersei’s face was emotionless, save for the fixation at the sight. She believed, Jaime could see it now, she finally believed it, seeing countless rotten corpses with sparkling ice blue eyes rushing for the walls of her city.

A horn sounded, one long blast. Jaime raised an eyebrow, surely, they wouldn’t know, the armies to the north are unprepared for the attack coming from the west, they’ll be caught… Three blasts sounded toward the north. They’ll be encircled. Gods, the dead will turn Jon’s battle strategy against the living….

Just then, one long blast sounded again. The dead were almost reaching the point beyond which the walls and the flames will hide them from sight, but then something completely unexpected happened.

On the two sides of the mass of dead, cavalry rode out into the open from the woods. Jaime wanted to shout, to laugh inside, the sight was something he’s never seen before. It urged him to fight, to just go, leave this place and join them. To the right was the Golden Company, he could tell. Griff must be riding out there, right now, sword in hand, urging his men. To the left… His mouth began to turn into a grin, until he caught himself.

“That’s Hightower,” Cersei remarked, “See the banner?”

Yes, Jaime saw the banner, all of them grey banners bearing the white tower with its flaming top. House Hightower has also joined the fray.

“Well, you expected Hightower to arrive,” Jaime remarked, “They’re here.”

“Those are my armies,” Cersei hissed, “Hightower, the Golden Company, those are MY armies!”

Jaime didn’t answer. He just watched as the dead stalled, slowly, and turned.

“Watch,” he whispered. The two sides merely draw swords toward the dead, rode in and began to cut them down.

“Why don’t they stop and fight?!” Cersei asked, for the first time, true fear in her voice.

“Because if they do, they are easy targets,” Jaime explained, “They’ll ride around, cut down the outer lines, until the dead turn. Look behind them,” he said, wondering why he explained battle strategy.

As he expected, behind the columns of the cavalry, the shield walls began to form, and even more so, the men used the relative safety that the circling cavalry provided, and drilled stakes, anything burnable between their shield walls and the dead, tents, tables, anything they could get their hands on in the little time they had to prepare.

“They’ll light fire walls,” Jaime said, smiling, “Griff did his job well.”

Cersei turned toward him in an instant. “Griff,” She hissed, “Did his job well?!”

“Cersei,” Jaime tried to calm her, “I fought besides those men, I fought the dead besides the Golden Company. You can’t blame me for rooting for the living.”

“And if they survive,” Cersei remarked, “Your new king and queen can take the Iron Throne with their help, are you rooting for that, too?”

“This is far beyond houses and kingdoms, Cersei!” Jaime yelled, “This,” he pointed toward the battle, “This is a fight for survival! OUR survival, Targaryens and Starks, Hightowers and Lannisters and fucking Essosi sellswords, it doesn’t matter! Either we win, or we die. You said so yourself,” He lowered his voice, “Either we submit and die, or we fight and die, that’s what you said. But if we fight, at least we stand a chance. Let me take your armies outside.”

She shook her head.

“Do you even have armies,” Jaime asked suddenly. “Or have you fucking burned them?”

“I couldn’t call them back, could I,” She hissed, “She would’ve known, she was scouting before they entered the city!”

Jaime wanted to slap her. “You sacrificed your fighting force,” He said, unable to believe it, “How many do you have? Your guard?”

She raised her head high, turning toward the battle once more, just in time as the makeshift row of pyres were lit. Archers lined in the back, drawing their first arrows. Burning arrows, they shot them right into the middle of the dead melee.

The riders must’ve turned under the city walls, they rode out from the long stretch of path which they occupied until now, and the dead rushed forth. Despite the arrows, despite countless of them cut down, as their space widened more and more rushed forth from the road, taking the place of those now turned against the shield walls. Jaime wondered how many of them will rise again, from those that were cut down.

“I’ve seen enough,” Cersei said then. “Good for Hightower, or this, Griff” she waived it away as if it was pure insignificance. “I wish them good fortune to die. They won’t beat that many dead men.”

No, they won’t. Jaime had to agree.

*****

The same thought rushed through Griff’s mind as he turned his horse, to circle back beyond the archers, and for the first time he had the chance to see; more and more dead were rushing forth.

Reed was right, the dead must’ve taken the Westerlands, this was not ten thousand, not even twenty, this was more, so much more. How will they beat this?

The three blasts sounded in the distance to the north, just as he saw Humfrey Hightower. The boy fought well, he thought. The boy will die. They will all die today.

*****

“See that?” Jon yelled as he pointed ahead. In the far distance, amidst the dark grey of storm clouds, smoke was rising. Not just any kind of smoke, it covered the sky. Jon understood, a city was burning.

But suddenly something else caught his eye. Inadvertently, he's drawn his sword, by instinct, as he urged the horse to fasten its pace. A pair of sparks. A pair of eyes, he knew.

Soon enough, the pair of eyes took shape amidst the fog, the shape of an angry dead bear. As it neared, running toward them, Jon raised his sword, ready for an attack. A spear flew past him, straight for the bear, and found its mark perfectly. The bear fell, the earth roaring as its weight hit the ground.

Jon halted, and the Fiery Hand halted behind him. Melisandre glanced at the body of the bear, turning to Jon.

“This is a problem,” Jon hissed.

“We killed a dead bear,” She shrugged.

“No,” Jon shook his head, turning toward her, “We revealed we are coming. He knows what they know, sees what they see…”

Her face turned to dread in an instant, and Jon turned, just to see the bear rise once more. He raised his sword, once more readying himself for an attack, but this time, an arrow hissed through the sky. The bear fell once more.

Jon slowly circled around, waiving for the men to form a circle around the bear. But this time, it didn’t rise. Finally, he leaned down and pulled the arrow out of the body.

Dragonglass.

Jon wanted to laugh aloud, as he turned to see.

Slowly, riders appeared, in furs, and at the head of them, a man he knew well, a large man, red haired and bearded.

“Tormund,” He called out, “What the fuck you doing…”

“We thought you dead,” Tormund rode close, “Or that Mad Queen took you. The Lioness. The Dragon Queen wanted to burn the whole city to get you back.”

Jon glanced toward the city, “Well, the city is burning.”

“They passed us,” Tormund said, “We were on the island, and they passed us.”

“How can a fucking army pass you, Tormund,” Jon grinned.

“It’s not an army, Jon,” Tormund said lowly. “It’s this,” he nodded toward the bear.

“Is there an army of the dead still,” Jon asked then.

“We were scouting for them, found no sign of them,” Tormund said, “Then we found them.”

Jon didn’t understand, until Tormund glanced back. Behind the riders of the freefolk, were men, women and children, pale faces full of fear, desperate eyes staring at Jon now.

“They say they come from keeps up the river,” Tormund explained, “Villagers and the like, a castle…”

“Riverrun,” Jon whispered.

“Yes, that’s what they said,” Tormund nodded.

“Edmure Tully,” Jon called out, “Is Edmure Tully among you?”

The men kept looking around, as Jon watched, listening to Tormund. “They were in boats, rowing down the river. There were dead after them, Jon. In fucking boats. We burned them in the fucking boats.”

A man stepped forward. “Are you Lord Edmure,” Jon asked, and he nodded, hesitantly. Beside him, a petite woman held a small child. No doubt, his Frey wife and his son.

“Listen to me, Tormund,” Jon said, “Take them north, along the shoreline, go as far as you have to until you find a port, a pier, and take them to Dragonstone. Leave with them.”

Tormund just shook his head.

“They are defenceless without you,” Jon argued, “Tormund, he’s Sansa’s uncle.”

Tormund whistled. Jon looked at them once more. How many were here, Sixty? Perhaps eighty, no more. He listened as Tormund instructed a hundred men with Jon’s command.

“I will not let you ride ahead by yourself,” Tormund said then. “I saw him, Jon. I saw the Night King, and the white walkers. They’re just ahead of us, following their pets. We come with you.”

“You are defying my order,” Jon said softly.

“It’s a shit order,” Tormund grinned. “I piss on your order, let’s go get them.”

*****

Finally, they reached ground level. As the Mountain opened the door, Jaime could see the thick ash falling, like the worst of winter rains, and the ground was covered in it. Everything was covered in it in fact, as he stepped out, no matter where he looked, everything was the same grey, covered in ash.

“Where are you going!” Jaime hissed, as Cersei walked past him, following the Mountain. She held her skirt up and walked on tiptoes. Jaime wondered for a moment how idiotic she looked, burning HER capitol with all its million or so inhabitants, but unwilling to get the ash of their remains on the bottom of her skirt.

“I go where I belong,” Cersei said calmly, “There is only one place for me to go.”

Jaime looked ahead.

“Have you gone mad?!” He called after them, “Have all of you gone mad? The dead are outside the walls, no one can beat them, and you mean to sit on your throne of swords to welcome them? What do you expect? That they will bend their knee and swear their fealty?”

None of them turned.

“Cersei,” he tried once more, just as the Mountain opened the enormous double doors to the throne hall. Cersei was already on the steps. “Cersei, we should get to the beach, take a boat, a dingy, get on the water! The dead don’t swim, Cersei, that’s the only safe place for you!”

She turned at the door, “My place is on the Iron Throne, Jaime. I am the Queen,” she said as matter of fact, before she entered. Jaime could only curse and rush after them, wondering why he did exactly that.

*****

“Now what?” Jaime asked, just as Cersei sat down on the throne. She didn’t answer. Jaime slowly looked around, taking in the sight of the place. He realised he’s never seen it this empty, not since the day… the day he stabbed Aerys in the back, he thought bitterly.

He felt the urge to leave, turning toward the door. But then the thought hit him. Once more he looked around. But no, he was right. Qyburn was no longer with them.

*****

“They are already fighting,” Sansa remarked with a sigh, and Reed nodded. It was obvious, the sounds of steel clashing, man screaming, and the dead shrieking filled the air, joining the falling ash. Her gaze turned toward the city. The flames weren’t so high anymore. The screams ceased, perhaps a while ago, she just stopped paying attention.

“What does Lord Baelor want to talk to you about,” She asked all of a sudden, without even thinking. Perhaps her mind needed a moment of rest, she thought.

“The sword, Vigilance,” Reed said lowly, “Your father and I rode to Old Town to return it.”

She raised an eyebrow, looking at Reed with wondering eyes.

“Gerold Hightower was at the tower we found Jon, Sansa,” Reed explained. “He died because we fought him. He was protecting Jon and your aunt, but we couldn’t have known. We knew nothing, really. We were desperate to find Lyanna. All we knew, there are these three kingsguards, drawing swords at the notion of us entering the tower. So, we fought them.”

“Father said only that he fought Ser Arthur Dayne,” Sansa remarked, “He said he has you to thank for surviving it.”

Reed swallowed. “My least honourable deed in my whole life,” He whispered, Stabbing Ser Arthur Dayne in the back, so he doesn’t cut your father’s throat. There’s no honour in that.”

“I wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t,” Sansa whispered as she reached her hand for his, and Reed gave him a sorrowful smile.

“Men have regrets, Sansa,” he said, “The older we get, the more regrets we carry, and sometimes they aren’t for mistakes. Sometimes we have regrets because we did the right thing.”

“The sword of the morning,” Sansa remarked, “killed by the Lord of the Neck.”

“Killed by the Knight of the Laughing Tree, I rather tell myself,” Reed remarked, “I wasn’t even a proper knight. I never got anointed as a knight.”

Sansa squeezed his hand before she let go. The sounds changed, now it was less shrieks and more screams in the air. She swallowed her fear down her throat, or at least that’s how it felt.

“After it, we took Dawn, Ser Arthur’s sword, and later, we returned it to Starfall, to his sister, Ashara. After we left, she jumped from one of the towers into the sea. I’ve heard it was out of grief, for her brother. That broke my heart.”

“I’ve heard it was because her child was taken,” Sansa remarked, “I’ve heard that she was Jon’s mother. Rumours, Howland, are only that, rumours.”

Reed didn’t respond, he merely looked ahead, nodding. He didn’t believe her, Sansa knew.

“Did you return Vigilance as well,” she asked.

“We did,” Howland gave him another smile, full of regret, “We handed it to Lord Leyton Hightower. That was the last I saw of Baelor Hightower.”

*****

Tyrion watched as Varys and Redwyne stood in front of him, deep in discussion, far enough for him not to hear. They weren’t arguing anymore, he thought bitterly. Paxter Redwyne. Paxter “I’d propose one of my sons, but that position is taken” Redwyne.

Daenerys asked Tyrion after it, what did Redwyne refer to? She’s never told of anyone of her plans with Jon, only Tyrion. But Varys knew, even before that – he knew, because he knew that Tyrion was supportive of Jon. That Tyrion wanted a Targaryen union, a true Targaryen rule. That Tyrion really liked Jon.

Redwyne turned and walked past him as if he wasn’t even there. He merely waved and Tyrion was grabbed up from the ground, pushed forward to follow. As he glanced back, he saw that Varys was following them.

The guards took Daenerys’ body, gently, carefully. Tyrion wondered why on earth, if she’s dying, if she’s dead… Then it hit him. He stopped and turned to face Varys.

“Do not worry, my friend,” Varys remarked calmly, “She’ll wake soon. Once this is all over, we really only spare her from the gruesome reality. She’ll wake and she’ll understand, and you will understand. I must add though, I doubt she’ll give you much time to see it through.”

“You sacrificed me,” Tyrion hissed, “For your plot, and you call me friend.”

“There are no victories without sacrifices,” Varys said.

“Tell me Varys,” Tyrion asked, just as a guard pushed him once more forward, “Who in the seven hells do you really serve.”

“I told you already,” Varys gave him one of those smirks that used to sit on his place whenever he was revealing some kind of truth that should’ve been obvious. “I serve the people, and the people deserve a just ruler.”

“You poisoned the ruler you claimed to serve,” Tyrion remarked.

“No, my Lord,” Varys gave him a proper smile for the first time ever, Tyrion thought, “You did.”

*****

“You know that the dead won’t care of you sitting on that throne,” Jaime remarked, but Cersei didn’t bother with any answer. She merely leaned back and waited.

“Even watching the battle was better than this,” he said then, “At least, then we would know. Now, we have no clue what’s happening.”

“We do know what’s happening,” Cersei said calmly, “The dead are defeating those armies outside our walls, while our guards are burning whatever dead bodies may have emerged in the Red Keep.”

“And once the dead defeated those armies,” Jaime asked, “What then?”

“Do you think Kings Landing is of value to them,” Cersei hissed.

“Not anymore,” Jaime raised an eyebrow.

“Not anymore,” Cersei repeated, “I presume they’ll take to the Roseroad next, take the lands of that traitorous Hightower. I presume his body will be leading them there.”

“You are a Queen,” Jaime remarked coldly, “I give you that. Queen of ashes and skeletons, over a wasteland. You’d rather have every living soul die in the Seven Kingdoms than be defeated.”

“Perhaps they’ll win,” she said nonchalantly.

“They can’t win without Jon, Cersei,” Jaime’s voice was full of the defeat, the pain and the frustration he felt. “You took the last chance of the living when you took Jon, and led them on, led them to believe he’s here.”

Her eyes turned to him finally at hearing that. “You asked for his release,” she said, “How’d you know I didn’t release him. I opened the gates; I did what you asked.”

“You opened the gates,” Jaime said lowly, “But you didn’t release Jon. That’s why they took the city, to find him. They couldn’t have known that you never had him.”

She raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise rushing through her face.

“You never had him,” Jaime repeated, “Perhaps you were meant to, perhaps it was a good plan that went terribly wrong and he died. But I am sure, you never had him.”

“How long have you known,” she asked lowly.

“Since I first spoke to you,” Jaime answered. He was surprised at how calm he felt now. A certain peace came upon him. Finally, they were talking. No more games.

“He was supposed to be brought here,” she said. “Along with Sansa, that bitch. And Daenerys Targaryen, they were all to be taken while you fight.”

Jaime remembered Tyrion’s story, about how the wolves saved Daenerys.

“It obviously failed,” Cersei said bitterly, “I only learned of it when the armies arrived, and Tyrion demanded his release, and then I knew for certain.”

There was nothing to say, Jaime found. His eyes took in the throne hall once more, the flicker light of the firepits dancing on the tall glass windows. It would’ve been peaceful even, if not for the sight of the Mountain standing at the entrance, ruining the illusion.

“I never thanked you for the letters,” Cersei said then, her eyes firmly fixed on him.

“I wish I could’ve done more,” Jaime said lowly, without looking at her. If he did, she would’ve known, he thought. “I also wish I was more careful. Harry Strickland told Jon of the letters, that’s how they knew of Euron Greyjoy’s attack on Dragonstone. Jon took their heads for it I hear. Then they began the hunt for the traitor. In the end, they ruled out everyone else, they blamed each other for a long time, but in the end, only I was left. I ran out of time.”

“We can still win this,” Cersei remarked then, with newfound resolution in her eyes. “The dead will deal with them all. There’s nothing in the city for the dead,” she stood from the throne, walking down the steps toward Jaime.

“They’ll leave us,” she said, her voice full of hope, “They’ll turn west, or they’ll turn south, we hunt down any dead in the Keep.”

“And then,” Jaime asked desperately, “What do we do after? When they conquered all of Westeros, what will we do?”

She swallowed hard at that, “Then I’ll be the only one left. All my enemies will be dead.”

Jaime stood, stepping close. “Then we should take whatever gold there is in the keep and go to Pentos. We’ll live like a King and Queen in Pentos. Or any of the free cities. Any of them except Meereen.”

She smiled. For the first time since his return here, Jaime actually felt something at the sight, something more than the hatred that was his constant companion. It was gripping at his heart, eating away at it, tearing out pieces of it. He wondered if he waited, would there be anything left to pump the blood around his body. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself, glancing at the Mountain by the door. He won’t need a heart.

“We could be free,” She whispered, and Jaime took her in his arm, the one arm he had left, “Like you said. We could be happy.”

“And no one would ever try to tear us apart,” he whispered, “All our enemies would be dead. Like you said.”

She took his face in her palms, “And we could be together,” she whispered, “Always.”

He closed his eyes, just as he leaned into the kiss. He didn’t want to even see what he was doing, he only opened them for a moment as her lips locked with his.

That one moment was enough.

It was what he needed, to pull the dagger from his hand behind her back. She still smiled as she parted from him, turning away to return to the throne. “All we need to do is wait,” she said, as she took the first step.

Now.

Jaime didn’t think about it. Didn’t consider any implications, there were none to consider. All he knew was that he’d rather die. He’d rather be dead, a risen corpse slowly rotting away in the service of the Night King, than wait any longer, or live a single day in the prison she described. The prison for which he planted the idea in her mind, when there was still hope. There was no more hope now.

The dagger pierced the leather, the linen, her skin, between the ribs it launched straight into her heart, Jaime knew. She merely had time to turn, for her eyes to meet his.

“I’d rather be dead,” Jaime hissed, “I’d rather be dead than living a single day more with you. I want you to know that.”

She knew, she understood. She was conscious enough, as she fell on her knees, mouthing one word.

_Queenslayer._

I am.

She fell back on the steps. Jaime knew, she was dead before she hit them. He could already hear the roaring steps of the Mountain towards him, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, nothing did. His eyes were fixed on the lifeless body, how the crown remained atop her head.

The mountain picked him up, swung him in the air and threw him against one of the columns. It hit hard, he wondered if it broke his spine. He tried to crawl to his feet, only getting as far as his knees before he was picked up once more, thrown against the column opposite. This time, he could feel the bones breaking. No, it wasn’t his spine.

This monster, holding him up by his hair, dragging him on the floor. Why can’t he just finish it, Jaime wondered, half-conscious. Why can’t it just end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found that some didn't understand the last scene with Dany, Tyrion and Varys in the last chapter, so I hurried to get this one out, before you get too worried 😉


	74. The Bells III.

 

 

 “Let him go!” Sandor Clegane’s roaring voice filled the hall.

The Mountain did as he was told. Ser Jaime was no longer of interest after all. No, something more primal must’ve hit this undead monster, Jaime thought as he half-consciously looked up, to see the Hound, Arya Stark and Brienne of Tarth at the entrance.

Ser Brienne attempted to rush past him as he launched for his brother, straight for Jaime, calling out for him more and more desperately. But the Mountain wasn’t having it, he wasn’t willing to give up the subject of his revenge.

Perhaps that undead mind decided to keep him for later, Jaime thought bitterly. If it was even capable of a chain of thought that level. He watched as the Hound launched at the Mountain – only to receive the same treatment that he did.

“He’s mine,” The Hound hissed as he got up, seeing that Brienne stood in attack position. “I’ve been waiting too long for this!”

The Mountain had other ideas, throwing Brienne against one of the columns, knocking her out. Then they fought, the Mountain and the Hound. Jaime amused himself at the entertainment, something he would’ve greatly enjoyed watching if it wasn’t for the pain crawling into his mind, from virtually every inch of his body. At the back, Arya Stark also stood at the entrance, watching. She knew better than to intervene, Jaime thought. She knew better that to try and come to his aid.

*****

Three blasts, mixing with the mismatched sound of bells. Edric could still hear the bells, he wondered if he’s imagining it – surely no one could survive the burning carnage in the city. But the bells were at times ringing, not all of them, it wasn’t the music that began when the gates opened, far from it. Edric pressed his lips together at the thought, that there were still those trying to survive, hoping, praying. The bells rang as their desperate cry for a miracle.

No one would come, no one could. He glanced toward the city, the black dragon circling and shrieking – no, crying – above the city. The city has fallen, and the Targaryen forces have been lost with it, Edric noted to himself, trying to believe it. Daenerys has fallen, no doubt, the dragon was crying for its mother. They couldn’t control it, that was certain. Jon’s dragon was nowhere to be seen – there was no magic weapon to rain fire on the mass of dead. The odds were now firmly against the living. Edric settled himself to the thought, he will die today.

He turned toward the north. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to prepare himself for the sight he expected. There was movement in the fog, he could tell, but couldn’t see yet.

Not until a flock of birds emerged, ravens and eagles with icy blue eyes. The breath stuck in his lungs, as he saw the first bear appear. And more bears, and shadowcats. To his complete dismay and sense of defeat, direwolves with dead eyes were running forth, straight for the living. They were his direwolves, he noted bitterly, as he blew his horn, one long blast. Then he drew his sword.

*****

Jon was searching, trying to find the connection he knew. It was not there – there was only an acute sense of emptiness in his mind where the link used to be. In truth, his whole mind felt one emptiness, a strange land, with only one coherent thought, one mission: stop the dead. The dragon was not part of it. He tried to call, to no avail.

Looking ahead he could see the smoke in the distance, rising beyond the fog that settled on the land. The land of the dead, he told himself, as he gave up on the dragon. It was only more pressure to be faster, to get there quicker. To kill HIM.

He wondered how he could achieve that, how could he single out the Night King, while armies were no doubt fighting. Bran said, destroy his armies only then will the Night King fight him. There was no time for such strategies, Jon didn’t need to see the battlefield to know.

He noticed Ghost beside his horse, growling as he ran. It warmed Jon’s heart. His fateful companion, who never abandoned him, never turned his back. On the other side of his horse another direwolf. Silver, Jon noted to himself, now he had two of them it seemed. They ran beside his horse, growling, teeth showing, angry. Running into battle.

*****

Arya watched more and more impatiently as the Hound struggled with his brother. Gregor Clegane was on her list, she kept telling herself. Get in line, she kept reminding herself.

The Mountain liked to lift people into the air, Arya noted to herself, studying the fight, if it could be called that. In reality, it was nothing more than when a dog plays, grabs something, sharp teeth holding on to whatever it is, while it keeps shaking it, then throwing away, only to rush after it and repeat the same, again and again until it tires of the game. Like a cat plays with a mouse, always allowing a little hope that the mice could escape, even though the eventual outcome is unquestionable.

The Mountain lifted the Hound by his throat, Arya was waiting for the bones to crack, for those enormous fingers to break the neck. But no, not yet, just as the Hound neared unconsciousness, dropping his sword even, the Mountain threw him straight at Arya’s feet.

“Can I finish it?” She asked, annoyed. “We have no time for this.”

Sandor Clegane looked up at her, with a gaze of a deeply insulted man. “No,” he hissed. Arya shrugged it off as she stepped back. Have your fill, then, if you can stomach it.

*****

Tyrion sat back with a laugh. He glanced toward Dany once more. He wondered why he’s laughing, but there really wasn’t anything else to do about this current predicament.

And predicament it was.

“Your grace,” he whispered, “Daenerys, wake up…” Why did he keep asking her to wake up, he wondered himself. It’s not like she’ll wake just because he asked. Whatever Varys has given her, is likely to keep her under for the foreseeable time, else what would be the point?

And what was the point to do this to her in the first place?

The dragon shrieked in the sky.

Thank you, Tyrion smirked. Even a dragon is smarter than I am.

Of course, if Daenerys was awake, no one could or would dare to go against her. She was furious already, no doubt – she’s sent Drogon to destroy the Red Keep regardless of the chance of Jon being there. You fool, you reminded her of Jaime being there, too. A lover for a lover, as Varys described the trade-off, but they didn’t get Jon. Now they likely won’t ever get him back, as Tyrion imagined no one could’ve emerged from the burning city alive. No one could make their way through the city from the Red Keep, and straight through the open gate anymore. Despite all Tyrion’s fears, it wasn’t even Dany’s doing. It was Cersei, because he’s been a fool. He forgot about the caches of wildfire completely, and he forgot who they were dealing with.

There were the occasional screams from the city still, and the bells rung at times, not all of them, not continuously as before, but they were still ringing. There were still survivors in the city. Tyrion’s eyes searched for Varys in the crowd in front of him. The champion of the people, Dany called the Spider once, albeit not without irony in her voice. This is how Varys championed the people – he didn’t organise rescue missions, he didn’t send men into Kings Landing to find survivors. This is how much Varys really cared.

With Dany unconscious, they didn’t have to worry about the dragon either. No one could turn Drogon against them now, and just as the thought formed in his mind, Tyrion became certain without doubt, that was the goal.

Whatever Varys intended, he had to ensure that Dany won’t interfere. There was a plan in motion, but Tyrion couldn’t imagine what. After all, not being able to use the dragon, Varys has just condemned all of them to death. And worse than death. There was no doubt in Tyrion’s mind that the armies fighting the dead were no match. From all he could tell, the northern army has been engaged – the screams and clashing sounds of steel all but confirmed this. He couldn’t see a single man of the Golden Company from where he sat. Perhaps they retreated, they are still waiting for Jon’s command, he laughed. They can wait until the dead kills them all before that comes…

He sighed. It looks like they all will die today. It was interesting, these past few years. Too bad, he almost became convinced that he will manage to redeem himself. That Dany will rule, and Jon beside her, and he’ll finally get to establish his vineyard. The Imp’s Delight, well no one will drink it now. What will become of all of them won’t need wine, won’t need anything. Too bad, he was almost certain they’ll beat their enemy. He never doubted that they’ll beat Cersei, but he was never certain of the Night King – not until he re-joined the army and saw Jon for what he really was.

Though, if he was honest with himself, he was certain that they’ll beat Cersei, and they didn’t even manage that. So much for his predictions.

Fucking bells. They began to give him a headache. What’s worse than waiting to die in chains, with a pounding headache? He glanced at the gate once more. Of course no one emerged. Jon still didn’t walk out of the city, or better, ride out on a white stallion, sword at hand charging at them all. What a thought. Jon was dead, Tyrion was certain of it now.

He climbed off the chair and sat down on the ground just beside where Dany lay atop some crates. Her face was so peaceful.

At least you won’t see. You won’t feel it, you won’t know how spectacularly we failed.

*****

Arya watched as the Mountain held up the Hound once more right in front of her, thinking, if he wants to die so much, just be done with it, so she can have her turn.

But instead, what she watched unfold was something she knew the Hound will scoff about for years to come. Brienne stood, slowly. She didn’t seem to have much more in her, but she draw her sword, approaching the Mountain and the Hound, and Arya saw in the Hound’s eyes the protest.

The Mountain is an idiot. It was over so swiftly, as Brienne lifted her sword – Jaime Lannister’s sword, Arya knew – and swung it in the air. The next thing that landed at Arya’s feet wasn’t the Hound’s battered body. No, it was his brother’s head.

It went on so long that she didn’t even feel the urge to argue, it was her kill. As she looked up at Brienne, fallen on her knees, crawling to the Hound, barely living, slapping him in the face. She had to chuckle at the sight, for the first words the Hound uttered was just what Arya expected, “It was my kill!”

“Why haven’t you killed him then,” Arya scoffed, but the smile froze on her face swiftly, as she noticed the movement in the corner of her eye.

“I saved your life,” Brienne hissed, slowly standing. Then she turned, and saw it as well, and screamed.

*****

The roaring of the horses was the only sound, as they rode into the fog. It wasn’t so dense after all as Jon thought.

No, it was lifting, and Jon knew, the bear really has been a problem. His surprise – for whatever that would’ve been worth with less than two thousand behind him – was gone.

But he rode out to the Long Lake with two thousand… but that was different. He had Dany there with three dragons, disobeying his commands – although by now he knew well that in fact it was Rhaegal who disobeyed commands, not Dany herself. Rhaegal and Edric, riding back with his cavalry against Jon’s orders. Jon couldn’t count on either of them now.

He narrowed his eyes, while brushing aside the thought of just how dire the situation was. He didn’t see much ahead, the fog may have been lifting, but ahead it was still only whiteness, like a smooth curtain that was pulled closed hiding the view.

He rode out to the Long Lake in the belief he’ll die there. Not once in this war did he consider dying besides that one time, at least not so deliberately, consciously. He didn’t have a problem with it that day, the decision was swift. It was what honour demanded; he created the situation that needed resolution. He’s good at creating situations with others in danger. The road to even the seventh of hells may be paved with good intentions.

He’ll die today, he told himself. That’s all well, the only other time he resolved himself to this fate was the night before the battle at Winterfell. The Battle of the Bastards they call it – well he was never a bastard, was he?

Suddenly, he could swear he saw something in the fog. He narrowed his eyes once more, trying hard to see. In mere moment he could see again, as the fog moved – there was a figure. His heart skipped a beat, as he took in what lied ahead.

One figure at first, then another, and another. There was eight of them in total. They were on horses.

“There”, He shouted toward Melisandre, “Separate them from the army!”

Once more he began to wonder what he’ll do with the walkers. Nothing, probably, considering their strengths.

But he had the red priestess.

Suddenly, he halted his horse, reaching toward her.

“If I die,” he said as she halted her horse beside him, “And he’s still on his feet, bring me back. If I die ten times, bring me back ten times. Right until I fucking killed him. You can leave me to die after.”

Melisandre chuckled, “Once you asked not to…”

“That was then,” Jon said resolutely. “This is not fucking Ramsay Bolton. This is death itself, if only I can kill him, considering my chances you are my greatest weapon to kill him.”

She nodded at that, waving her hand, she shouted something. Jon silently promised himself to learn languages, if in some miraculous chance he survives this. Lady Catelyn made sure all of the Stark kids learned High Valyrian – the sign of their noble education – but not Jon, she never allowed Jon.

He looked ahead, watching as the Fiery Hand rode forth, in two columns on the two sides. Tormund and the freefolk waited for him, their commander. As he watched, Jon took a deep breath.

“And now it ends,” he whispered, knowing well that both Melisandre and Tormund were watching him intently. Tormund handed him a dragonglass dagger, and Jon had to chuckle. He took it, merely because of the gesture it represented. HE cannot be killed with dragonglass, he thought. He didn’t feel like reminding Tormund.

*****

Arya ran. Brienne tried to, behind her, injured as she was. She watched as a barely alive Jaime Lannister slowly turned, just as she stood straight.

Jaime began to crawl away, trying to get on his feet, but she only stood there, watching, as if she still knew who she was, as if she remembered what he did.

She shrieked. Then she launched, straight at Jaime.

“Duck,” Arya shouted, though it seemed Jaime Lannister needed no reminder – he fell, rolled to the side which was probably the only thing he was capable of, as Arya launched, landing on the body, causing it to fall back, but the dagger was already in its chest.

She didn’t care. She pulled it and lashed out again. And again, and again.

“This is for my family,” she cried out, “I am Arya Stark, bitch. I don’t care if you’re dead. This is for my father,” she thrusted the dagger into her face, “And my mother,” she thrusted again, “And my brother, my sister, Lady her direwolf, and Nymeria, and Micah the butcher’s boy,” she just kept thrusting the dagger into the body, until the face became unrecognisable like diced meat.

Behind her, Brienne reached Jaime, by now both watching the scene stunned, as Arya grabbed the crown from the head of the dead wight that was once Cersei Lannister, First of her Name. She threw it toward the Iron Throne, then she stood.

“You were never a Queen,” she said calmly. “You were nothing. You were no one.”

*****

Jon could see the Fiery Hand turning – they executed the same manoeuvre he used to utilise, multiple times, as they circled back, surrounding what now clearly could be seen as eight riders. The riders seemed unfazed – they would be, Jon thought, as he rode ahead.

What amazed him was the Fiery Hand. As they completed their circle, they did so by the two lines flawlessly merging, turning from the riders. And afterward, they raised their spears high and smashed them into the ground, at once.

Suddenly, a wall of fire emerged in front of them, effectively separating anyone from them, living or dead. That’s when the riders finally halted and turned. That was when Jon reached the nearer side of the circle, where just a small gap has been left.

From the inside it looked like an arena, as Jon rode in, Melisandre, Tormund and the freefolk behind him.

“Line the circle,” Tormund shouted and freefolk began to ride around. But Jon didn’t pay attention anymore, his eyes were fixed on his component. He assumed right, the Night King was here, with his seven remaining white walkers. One for each of the seven hells, Jon told himself.

An arrow was launched at one of the walkers, and found its target, to no avail. Spears were thrown, dragonglass daggers, as Jon and the Night King eyed each other. Only one thing can end them, Jon decided then. He dismounted.

To his surprise, albeit this was what he wanted, the Night King did the same.

*****

“Ssshhhh,” Arya shushed the worried Brienne. “Can you hear it?”

They all listened. Commotion outside, a hissing sound.

“Should’ve burned the fucking guards, you’re right,” Arya hissed, cursing herself. They weren’t rising against Cersei, they were rising against them now, no doubt urged by the last shriek of the Mad Queen’s dead equivalent.

“In the back there,” Jaime hissed, biting his lip as Brienne helped him onto his feet. He pointed toward the back, the corridor behind the Iron Throne.

Just then, the double entrance was hit by something. At least you locked the doors, Arya congratulated herself. More and more bangs followed the first, as they began to make their way toward the corridor, Jaime helped by an almost equally limping Brienne, with Arya once more drawing her dagger, and even needle.

*****

It was worse than anything Edric could’ve expected.

The rut, as he called it before, was even worse this time than an army of dead men. There were dead men, surely, but Edric didn’t even get the chance to cut down a single one of them.

No, he’s had to cut down bears. Shadowcats. It wasn’t long before they got his horse, at least afterward the birds couldn’t get to him as easily and he didn’t have to defend himself from that.

But the worst were the wolves. He hoped none of them finds its way to him, cutting down his own wolves was something he hoped not to have to do, even if they weren’t his anymore.

His hopes weren’t heard, as he sliced through a shadowcat, turned to throw his dragonglass dagger toward a bear that was by now chewing on one of his men. As he looked around, two wolves stood against him. He had no more dragonglass daggers, no Valyrian steel sword in his hand.

So, this is how it ends.

Should’ve given up breeding the fucking wolves, Edric thought, “should’ve never brought them back here. They were happy in the hills.

Then a wolf launched.

*****

The pyres were slowly diminishing, as more and more dead wights sacrificed themselves on them. Their body burning, their weight depriving the fire of air as more fell onto the pyres. The dead reached the lines of soldiers in masses.

Humfrey never heard men scream like this before. Griff was right – he’s never seen the army of the dead, and his imagination didn’t even come close. There was just too many.

Griff halted his horse beside him.

“We have to ride to the front,” Humfrey said, “Our lines can do little against such a mass.”

Griff merely nodded, blowing his horn. The riders readied themselves, Humfrey was amazed at how efficient they were – as if the threat itself meant nothing to them.

Something to draw strength from, he told himself, trying not to think about what the other side could look like. Hoping Baelor was still alive. Hoping they held that line, so the dead couldn’t reach to the Queen, south of them in the woods. Suddenly fifty men seemed nothing as guard, Humfrey cursed himself.

But then Griff shouted “Ahead,” drawing his sword pointing toward the dead, and no further thoughts came as Humfrey did the same. The footsoldiers parted as groups of riders rode forth to their left and right, following Griff’s command.

After that he had no time to think of anything. He kept slicing with Vigilance, trying to keep them away from the horse while cutting them down.

Don’t lose your horse, or you die, he kept telling himself.

*****

The Night King walked to the middle of the circle, drawing a sword.

Suddenly Jon realised – he had no sword. Myles Thoyne took his sword.

Melisandre was already walking toward the circle, to Jon’s amazement, so calmly as if she was walking toward a friend.

She stopped at a distance, thrusting a sword into the ground. Jon wondered where she got it from, perhaps it was already with her?

Jon watched the sword intently, walking towards it.

“Your sword awaits you,” Melisandre whispered as he walked past her. He tried to remember where he heard of that before, he could swear that he did, but he couldn’t recall.

He merely grabbed the intricately forged gold hilt.

“Āeksios Ōño,” Jon heard Melisandre shouting. It annoyed him, he really wanted her to stop. “aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys!”

Then all the Fiery hand shouted as one, “Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys!”

Jon merely raised an eyebrow. She stopped, so Jon assumed her prayer had ended. He pulled the sword from the earth.

He stunned, taking a few steps, fighting the urge to drop the sword as it alit. It wasn’t burning, no. It was doing something else, as if heated in the smithy. Jon held the sword high, the light of the steel shining brighter and brighter. He could feel the heat radiating from the hot steel, even the gold on the handle warmed, soothing his freezing fingers.

He glanced back at Melisandre who nodded. Jon remembered reading about it in a book, a very long time ago – Lightbringer the sword was like this. But this couldn’t be Lightbringer.

No, he was Lightbringer.

His gaze fell on the Night King drawing his ice sword, just as Jon took up position.

“Now it ends,” Jon whispered, as the Night King launched at him.

*****

Sansa could hear the shrieks, coming closer and closer in the woods. She tried to convince herself that this was the sounds of battle, still, but they were drawing closer and closer. Yet she couldn’t see anything, the trees and the fog prevented it. She tried her best to fight the panic overtaking her. Slowly, she raised Longclaw, hr eyes watching the swirls of Valyrian steel.

“Light the trench,” she heard Reed shout, and the men formed a circle around the three of them. She wasn’t alone in believing that they were coming for them, then.

There, behind a tree. She could finally see one, as it rushed forth, still shrieking, just as the small circle around them took to burn. It wasn’t much. It was Reed’s idea, and they gathered whatever branches they could find, they lit fire in the circle, to have it at the ready. Now, a dozen of the guards rushed to light the circle on every side, and in the light of the fire she could see them, more and more of them rushing forth.

It wasn’t much, she thought, it was nothing against this many.

*****

“Is there a way out,” Arya hissed, “To the beach?”

“We’re going away from the beach,” Jaime hissed.

“We have to get out of the keep,” Brienne remarked.

Thank you, I haven’t realised that on my own, Arya thought bitterly. They were standing in a dark corner, listening at the hissing sound. It seemed to halt – no doubt in the throne hall.

“We have to keep moving,” she said, as she stepped forward into the corridor.

A wight saw it fit to step out just at the same time, still looking the other way. Arya threw her dagger once more, and it fell.

“There’ll be others,” she hissed, “We can’t go this way.”

“We have to,” Jaime argued, “At the end, there’s a door, goes down to the cells, but before that, it turns to the catacombs.”

Suddenly Arya remembered, “Must be one of the many,” she said, knowing that it wasn’t the same that she took all those years ago. “The catacombs, the water system – it leads out of the city, unseen.”

Jaime nodded; they began to move at once. They only need to reach the corridor. If only they reached it…

“There are no guards in the catacombs,” Jaime whispered, as if reading her mind. They only had to reach it, Arya told herself, just as another wight stepped onto the corridor. This one faced them. It shrieked.

*****

The bite was strong, Edric thought. He fought off a fucking wolf, he told himself, wondering why his thoughts didn’t focus on the other. It bit on his upper arm, the force of its jump throwing him off his feet.

You’re a dead man, Edric Snow, he told himself. Well then, Valar morghūlis.

The wolf raised its head, and Edric reached, swiftly. It bit into his wrist, and he screamed, as he twisted it out of the jaw, to be able to hold the head. One motion, albeit it needed all his strength, and he heard the crack. He kicked the wolf off himself, just as he felt the edge of a sword slicing through his chest in a long line.

A wight. You wanted to reach them fucking wights. Now you did.

He felt himself falling, in the daze that surely comes before death itself, as he looked down on his chest seeing the blood rushing forth. He looked up to memorise the rotting face, just as a dragonglass dagger landed in the wight’s chest and it fell on him.

Hands pulled him, more and more hands, he could see men with healthy red cheeks and dreadful eyes dragging him back, more and more of them. Then he saw nothing anymore.

*****

In the end, Humfrey lost his horse from under him. If he survives, he thought, as he slammed down Vigilance into the body of the horse, he’ll pride himself knowing he fell off the horse after Griff did his.

He was on his feet in no time, Vigilance at the ready, eyes looking for the commander.

_I like to know the man who’s supposed to have my back in a fight. I like to be certain that they do._

There, he could see Griff to the right, wights separating them, surrounding the commander. He felt his fury rising, as he rushed, cutting down anything between them.

Just as he arrived beside Griff, he could see the wight finding an opening – not a feat, Griff was fighting them off three-four at a time. But it still found it, thrusting straight into the commanders side. Griff fell on his knees, just in time for Humfrey to cut down the perpetrator. But more came, and more after them.

“Get up,” He shouted, as he stepped in front of Griff, “Get on your feet!”

He kept cutting them down as they came, only half-registering in his mind when the sword beside him launched. Griff was on his feet. For a moment, Humfrey could feel the hand on his shoulder. Then he turned his back, and Griff did the same, back against back they began fighting off whatever came near them, both knowing that they cannot hold this much longer.

*****

A half-conceived thought reached Jon’s consciousness, that the Night King must’ve been a lord, for no men would use the moves he did was he not thought by a Master of Arms.

He struggled, as he expected. He fell and rolled more times he could count, always landing on his feet, sword at his back at the ready.

But he tired. He could tell that the Night King didn’t. But Jon was only a man. He could be killed, said his consciousness, as he defended another blow.

He didn’t expect it. The other hand of the Night King reaching for him, he swung his sword, but he was too late, and the Night King grabbed him. Looking straight into Jon’s eyes, the Night King lifted him into the air, just as his sword reached full circle, driving home a hit on the thus unprotected side.

Then he fell, hit the ground hard, like the force he was thrown with, and the sword fell out of his hand. It’s light immediately began to diminish. Jon rolled on the ground, straight for the sword, grabbing the hilt just as the blow came, defending it once more, but he couldn’t put the strength into it, couldn’t push it back. For a moment the swords held the position, as Jon’s began to alight once more. Then the ice sword shattered.

The moment allowed Jon to jump to his feet. The Night King already had another ice sword in his hand. Does he grow them? Jon amused himself as he launched.

It was a mistake. The Night King defended the attack easily, kicking Jon in the guts at the same time so hard that he fell back a few meters, and his sword once more meters away. Right at the feat of the Night King.

He leaned down and picked it up, looking at Jon. Then he thrust it into the ground, the earth shaking as the light has gone out from the sword, as it turned to ice and shattered into tiny pieces.

So much for Lightbringer the sword, Jon thought, or whatever this copy was. He knelt up, spitting out the blood and the stomach acid so eager to break free after the kick, as a spear landed in front of him.

“Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās!” He could hear Melisandre shouting behind him, “Āeksios Ōño, aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās!”

Jon wanted to curse the Lord of Light as he stood, spear in hand, and aimed.

The Night King merely caught the spear with his hand, and it broke into more tiny ice crystals. The next one was already at Jon’s feet. He’s not going to throw this one, he thought, his mind registering the pain in his body as he launched his attack.

*****

“We’re can’t hold them back,” Sansa said in panic, watching as the men of the guard fell one by one in front of her eyes.

No, we can’t, Howland Reed agreed, but he wasn’t willing to say that out loud. How could he? He swore way too many oaths for that. Oath of fealty; serve as bannerman and come to the aid of the Starks whenever called upon, now and always. The oath to Jon to keep Sansa safe. The oath to Sansa to serve her, to prove himself worthy of the trust she’s invested in him. The oath to himself to set right the wrongs that they did when they were no more but hot-headed young lordlings, the deaths at their hands, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent. And not just them, as he listed to himself the names, but their own companions; Will Dustin, Martyn Cassel, Ethan Glover… men whom Howland by then called his friends. Ser Mark Rhyswell, whom he didn’t, and still, Rhyswell fell against the Sword of the Morning at the Tower of Joy, all of them did. And Jon, most of all Jon, whom he assisted to deprive of his life, his inheritance and future, even his name. But the list didn’t stop there, for now he had other names, Micah Clay and his son Mikken, and Quagg. Balerion. Quagg sons were grieving, and he blamed himself.

He won’t set anything right, in the end. What was he thinking? As he watched the men fight around them, watched the wights throw themselves into the fire, he wondered what he was even thinking when he set out on this path. Not that there was any other path. The dead were coming, he could’ve tried to sit it out, perhaps. But he would’ve received the same orders, and he would’ve obeyed. His people would be on Dragonstone, and events were out of his control long before this moment, Quagg would be dead, Greywater Watch would be a pile of charred wood planks, Micah Clay would’ve jumped to his death to save Arya Stark…

Greywater Watch was not a pile of charred wood planks, Howland reminded himself. He flew back to see, once he mustered the strength, for he had to know. It didn’t burn down to its foundations. The rains that night saved actually quite a lot of it. It could be rebuilt, from what he could tell the foundations were there. Perhaps even some tapestries survived. The entire southern wing was gone, the guest chambers were gone, and so was the room he’s always kept for Jon. But the inner circle of the northern wing was intact, the gates remained – even his solar stood albeit so soaked that he was certain, his fine collection of books and manuscripts didn’t survive without the roof. His own chamber stood, the chamber adjacent, where the Stark sisters slept was gone. Much of the common buildings, circled around by the sleeping quarters, have been protected and still stood. No, Greywater Watch could be rebuilt.

He watched a man fight off a wight, then another. More and more of them picked up burning sticks in front of them, using the fire as much as their sword to fight, alighting the wights that ‘sacrificed’ themselves, as well as those that followed them. They learned quickly, Howland thought.

No, they cannot hold back this many wights, that’s certain. But they should ‘t have to hold back forever, he thought, just as he heard the shriek in the sky. A dragon, and it wasn’t the dragoncry they were listening to in the past hour or so. No, this was new, and yet well known to him. This was a green dragon in the distance, and it was angry. It shrieked again, and Howland’s eyes met Sansa’s, both of them noting the same. Jon’s dragon returned, and it was no longer crying for Jon. That could only mean one thing, in Howland’s mind, and he hoped that the notion wasn’t empty hope itself.

As he draw his sword to cut down the first wight that made it through the circle and past the fighting men, even past the horses, stunned animals frozen in fear, straight for them, he reminded himself once more. They only need to hold out for a little longer, surely, for Jon has returned.

*****

Jon allowed himself a sarcastic grin as he crawled to his knees, as the rush of energy hit him. He didn’t look to see; he knew well what it meant. The connection was there, he could feel it so strongly, and it was only getting stronger. It was angry, furious, and it was glad, so very glad.

“Burn them all,” Jon whispered, as he looked up at the Night King, “Burn them all!”

The dragon came from the North, so close to the ground that it almost knocked the riders off their horses, and it flew past the circle, Jon’s arena to fight.

It understood, Jon exhaled in relief, as it began to breathe fire just outside the circle, and it kept on burning whatever came in its way, further and further from Jon.  The Night King watched, its face grim, just as furious as Jon knew Rhaegal felt.

Welcome back, Jon thought, and Thank you.

Then he didn’t think anymore, for the Night King reached him, just as he tried to stand, and he could feel the boot in his stomach, kicking him further on the ground.

He could still hear as the men began to cheer.

*****

“I never thought we’ll die here,” Tyrion said lowly. “Honestly, I was certain you will succeed. I was so certain, that you’ll break the wheel. Turns out, the dead will break the wheel.”

He felt the urge to laugh. “I should’ve supported your plan to attack Kings Landing,” he whispered. “None of this would’ve happened if we overthrew my sister.”

“Then we could’ve allied the Seven Kingdoms against the dead, call the crown banners, amass the largest army the world has ever seen. We could’ve brought the Golden Company, and every fucking sellsword company in Essos, and we would’ve beaten them right at the Wall.”

“Who knows how many lives we would’ve saved…” he sighed, as the tears began to burn his eyes. “If only I could see the bigger picture, if only I understood that there is a sacrifice… If only I accepted what that sacrifice should be.”

“And what does it matter?” He slammed his fist into the ground, “They all died anyway, Cersei burned them all anyway. I saved no one.”

“In truth, I was never good at saving anyone,” he whispered then. “I’m too good in letting others do the saving. I’m good at playing the games, not losing it.”

“Remember Ser Jorah,” he asked, “When you first met me, I told you that you cannot pardon the man. Bullshit, I wasn’t saying it for you, I was saying it for myself.”

“I burned Blackwater Bay for myself, I didn’t intend to die,” he continued, “Ser Davos was on one of those ships, did you know? And his son, I burned his son with wildfire. I can’t even claim to be innocent of burning the city, I showed Cersei how effective it is…”

“Everything I’ve done, I did to save my own skin,” he whispered as the tears began to roll, “What a waste. I even shot my own father with a crossbow to save my own skin. I was so blind I couldn’t put it together about Varys, no matter how long I knew that something isn’t right, even Jon told me, Lord Reed told me to open my eyes and I didn’t. Now they are going to die, they may already be dead, you may die, everyone may die. That’s what I’ve done. Sacrificed everyone, countless innocents, good men… now you have nothing, you have a dwarf. All I did was saving you a not particularly innocent dwarf. I’m sorry.”

He wiped his tears with his sleeve, just as he heard the dragon. He looked to the northwest. Shutting his eyes, then opening them, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t imagining it. No, he saw the amber light of fire, he saw the green dragon flying past toward the west.

“Gods be good,” he whispered as he stood, watching, “Old Gods and New Gods, have mercy. This cannot be…”

He watched the dragon disappear behind the walls of the burning city, no doubt flying past it to the west, no doubt breathing fire. How could this be, he wondered, the dragon was lost to them, gone, assumed to be searching for Jon.

Jon.

Jon was here.

Tyrion laughed, loudly, madly, happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the pause in the middle of the Bells... flu got me!


	75. The Bells IV.

Humfrey watched in awe, as the green dragon circled around, breathing fire onto the mass of wights between them and the Hightower army to the south. He was stunned, truly stunned, so much so that he almost got killed for it, only Griff saving him from the blow.

“Never seen a dragon before?” He could hear Griff beside him. He wondered about the voice as he shook his head. Griff’s voice was weak, no doubt he was ailing from the stab wound to his side. He won’t last much longer on his feet, Humfrey knew. Yet as he turned toward the other side, all he could see is how far they’ve come from their own.

“It’s Jon’s dragon,” Griff said, just as he cut off another wight, and Humfrey returned to the same task. “Jon likes to burn wights like this with the dragon.”

Humfrey felt the blow that hit Griff just then. The commander fell on his knees once more. Humfrey didn’t think about it. He grabbed Griff under his arm and pulled him up.

“Cut down any that follows,” he hissed, as he threw Griff over his back. If they ever make it, he’ll make sure the man takes on a healthy diet, he thought, as his legs shook under the weight. But there was no other way.

Slicing through the wights ahead of him, most of which were too occupied advancing toward the lines of the living, he carried Griff straight through to behind the lines, the men parting in front of him to give him way. There, he laid the man on the ground.

“If you think it’s safe…” Griff began.

“Nowhere is safe,” Humfrey hissed. Now he understood what Sansa meant by that statement.

A roaring sound hit them, with gusts of air, that made Griff try to jump from the ground. He couldn’t, he didn’t have it in him anymore. If he didn’t get help, he’ll die, Humfrey knew. He felt sorry for it, watching the man he pushed down on the ground once more. He decided he liked this man.

Then the dragon flew past above him, and Griff shouted, “Where’s my horn,” fiddling around himself. But Humfrey didn’t hear anymore. A dragon, a living breathing dragon began breathing fire on the dead, just where he and Griff fought before. He was in complete awe of the sight, sure he saw the other dragon before, but all he saw was a crying wreck of a dragon flying around the city. This was a furious dragon, he could tell. Griff’s declining state had one thing good about it – they haven’t been burned to a crisp.

Finally, Griff found his horn, blew three short blasts.

Retreat.

Get out of the line of fire, Humfrey understood.

“You know what this means, boy,” Griff asked. Humfrey turned toward him, seeing the wide grin on his face. “Jon is here. That’s his dragon there burning the fuckers. We may yet survive today.”

Not you, Humfrey thought grimly. Not unless this ends, now, and there’s a master nearby.

*****

“There are two!” Redwyne shouted once more, pointing toward the city. Varys merely raised an eyebrow.

“There were two dragons,” he shrugged it off. “I told you, the Targaryens have to be kept under, so they can’t control the dragons. I suppose that one remembers orders from before.”

“Orders from before?” Redwyne asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Varys sighed, “If the men did their job well, that is the only explanation… it is Jon Snow’s dragon, and he’s been obsessed with burning wights with it in battles, as far as I can tell.”

Tyrion watched them and listened.

If the men did their job well…

Could it be? Could Rhaegal merely have returned in order to do what Jon would want the dragon to do? Tyrion shook his head. It can’t be, his heart has been broken way too much in the past couple hours alone.

“And what if the men didn’t do their job well,” Redwyne hissed.

Varys shrugged once more, waving toward Tyrion’s direction. He had to stand to see, the wave surely couldn’t be for him. He was right, an angry looking man stepped forward from behind him and walked straight to Varys. He wore a long black hooded cape. Tyrion felt fury rising in his stomach.

“Jon Snow,” Varys asked.

“Dead,” the man responded, and Tyrion wanted to scream out loud the sharp pain he felt at hearing it.

“You’ve seen him dead,” Varys pointed out.

“I’ve seen him laying cold and almost lifeless for five days or so, while we carried him around,” the man explained, “And I’ve seen the guards left with his body having been torn by wolves. I’ve seen their marks in the snow, I’ve seen the drag marks in the snow. That’s enough for me, the boy is dead, the wolves saw to it.”

Varys nodded.

Wolves, Tyrion thought.

Direwolves. Whoever this man was, he was a complete idiot, Tyrion chuckled. Direwolves would never hurt Jon, never. He amused himself at the thought – a few years ago perhaps he would’ve considered himself to be the idiot for believing in such things. Dragons breathing fire on dead men while direwolves save lives. Not anymore. All his hopes were in dragons and direwolves now, he reminded himself sarcastically.

*****

This has to end soon, Jon thought, as much as he could form coherent thoughts. He glanced up, as he crawled to his knees, seeing Tormund’s worrisome face, drawn eyebrows. Not it wasn’t worrisome, Jon realised – Tormund was afraid. He never saw Tormund afraid before, not even at Hardhome, not like this.

He rolled to the side, jumping onto his feet. For once, he didn’t get kicked further. Get yourself together, he told himself, you mean to kill him. Stop the cat and mice game.

But how?

Jon tried to remember but all he recalled was Bran’s sorry face, telling him that he didn’t know. That Bran was impatient, went to see the Night King, thus cutting short the time he could’ve had to learn and figure this out.

He slowly stood up straight, his legs shaking, every bit of him screaming in pain. He can’t take this beating much longer, he knew. It has to end.

*****

Arya could hear the hissing sound so familiar from Winterfell, recalled her desperate run through the corridors of her home. This was not her home. She didn’t know the corridors, the turns, she only knew they were coming, getting nearer every moment.

“Hurry,” she hissed as they reached the last turn, but there she halted, Jaime and Brienne almost bumping into her. Just at the door that meant life to them, stood a wight, slowly turning. Arya moved to launch, but Brienne pulled her back.

The wight wasn’t alone. More and more joined it, there were four, five, six, seven… the route to escape has been cut.

*****

Sansa looked around in panic. One more has broken through the circle. In truth, there wasn’t even a circle anymore. Their own men – Humfrey Hightower’s men, she reminded herself – struggled, more and more being surrounded and fighting off three- four of the dead at once.

They’ll die for her today. The thought formed in her mind like a cold, rational, immediately accepted fact, an understanding, like knowledge that has always been there. Jon cannot save them today. Jon, who always saved them, who saved Sansa before, will not be able to save her today. Not when they were falling this fast.

Just then, a wight grabbed at the back of her horse, and she launched. Stay on your horse, she reminded herself, as she cut down the next one with Longclaw. At least these won’t rise again, she reminded herself. No, these were the ones she’ll take to hells with her today.

*****

Jon spit out the blood that filled her mouth so rapidly. Something inside has been seriously broken, ruptured, he noted to himself, along with the sharp pain that came with every breath, and breathing became harder with each attempt, his chest seemingly unable to rise. Lungs, those were ruptured, he told himself quite factually. Not a problem, no one needs lungs in the nothingness that was the afterlife, at least as much as Jon knew. Stomach, bleeding. Won’t need that either to kill HIM. Only hands, and eyes.

His eyes caught the sight of the spear falling next to him, and he launched to reach it, but it was too far. As he grabbed it, so did the Night King. Screaming, he stood. There’s a bone broken, in his right leg, there is something…

He tried to turn the spear, to push it forward, to stab him. Somewhere in the back he registered Melisandre chanting her prayer once more, as the flame shaped point of the spear began to alight in his hand. It wasn’t the sword before, he concluded, it was him.

But he wasn’t near strong enough against the Night King himself, not after the beating he took, and even not before it. The Night King grabbed his wrist and twisted it, and Jon screamed.

But no. His eyes found the icy blue ones as he put his weight behind the spear.

Then just in the last moment, the Night King took a step to the side. Jon lost balance, and fell forward, the handle of the spear breaking under his weight, as he fell to the ground.

*****

A wight reached, and Howland Reed turned to slice through it, but there was already another, and more and more, grabbed his unprotected side. What he’d give for the arm he lost, now, but thoughts could not save him.

The wights pulled him off his horse, and he fell hard on his back to the ground, sword at the ready to fend off any attack. There were just too many, cutting at his legs, and finally, Reed screamed. He didn’t scream at the loss of the arm, not once did pain get to him like that before. Not until now, for he knew what pain brought with it: death. Worse than death in fact.

He could still see Sansa cutting through them to get to him, reaching down her free hand. But then, he could feel the sword once more, the sharp pain of the cut, and he couldn’t see her any longer, he couldn’t raise his hand. He could do nothing at all.

*****

“We have to,” Jaime cried out desperately, and Arya wondered if “we” meant them four, or only herself. But as she glanced back, she could see at least twenty wights rushing forward. They had to, so they stepped into the corridor, the Hound shutting the door behind them, he and Brienne pushing against it with all their weight. There was by now a dozen around them, blocking their way to the door down to the catacombs.

Then Brienne screamed. An axe made it through, straight for her upper arm, and she inadvertently let go of the door for just a moment. It was enough for the door to be pushed in by the sheer weight of the wights behind it.

Brienne backed onto the corridor. Arya merely looked at both sides. And in front of her, wall.

“Not today,” she whispered, watching as the wights closed in on both sides, “not today!” she screamed.

“Not today, not today!”

*****

Jon tried to crawl away, but a boot on his back pressed him onto the ground.

This was it then, he told himself as he felt himself being grabbed by his hair. He didn’t scream, the unnatural bending of his back allowed no air to reach his lungs. He merely watched the hand that reached to grab him by the throat. Once more, he was lifted into the air.

But this was different. This WAS it. He could feel the fingers squeezing, as he began to wonder, almost half conscious from the lack of air, when he’ll hear that unrecognisable pop, to indicate that his neck is broken, if he’ll hear it at all.

But then it struck.

You can’t go. You have to take him with you.

He reached to grab the dagger from his belt in the back. Dragonglass can’t kill him, what are you doing. He was made by dragonglass. His heart was dragonglass.

Well, now he’ll have some more, Jon thought, as he put his last strength into the thrust that launched, straight for where the heart would be. He could feel as the dagger hit and pierced, as if it pierced through ice itself, but then it hit something harder. Still going forth by force, he could feel the blade break on something as it hit it.

The handle on him weakened, and he was dumped onto the ground. He could no longer get up on his feet, he realised. He felt as if he had no feet at all. He could only watch as the Night King reached and pulled the dagger from his chest – Jon was right, the tip of the blade was broken.

Broken on his heart.

Anger rushed through the face of the Night King, as he reached for Jon, lifting him to standing position, and in his other hand, a dagger emerged.

Now you die, Jon told himself as he watched, the moment so short but it felt like a lifetime as the dagger reached his chest, as he felt the pain of it cutting through, straight where once another dagger paved the way to his heart.

What will you do with your last moments? Jon looked up to the sky, listening as Rhaegal shrieked in panic – the dragon knew. Men still cheered at the fire breathing dragon joining their fight, but not inside this circle. He could see the tears on the faces of the freefolk as they watched. No, this will not be my legacy, he told himself.

Failure was not an option, he had to try, once more.

He reached, there’s an opening, there’s a wound where the dragonglass pierced him, broke on the glass that was giving him life. He reached straight, his fingers feeling cold as ice as they entered the wound. He found it.

He grabbed it, and screamed from the struggle to put what all strength he could still muster. Pull.

Pull, and pull as hard as you can. Take from him what he’s taken from you.

Another lifetime long moment passed as he watched his own hand, as if it was someone else’s, pulling a shard of glass from the icy mass. He held it in his hand, almost in awe at the feat.

The Night King dropped him. As it all went black, Jon could still see the shocked expression on his face. Melisandre’s scream was the last thing he’s heard.

*****

He stood there, over the body, and the body didn’t move anymore.

Melisandre screamed, but there was no sound beside that, only the wind. He looked toward her, took a step forward, and another, another, passing Jon’s body.

Death itself was coming for her.

But then it stopped. He stood, somewhat frozen mid-step, as his face turned hollow, and more and more white. She watched as the cracks appeared, his last motion the reaching out of his hand toward her. Then the cracking intensified, so did the icing, until he was nothing more but a crackled ice statue.

Suddenly, the earth itself shook, as the statue exploded, the shards hitting her, and all of them.

She stepped forward to see, to believe. But sure enough, it was real. The walkers turned into the same ice statues, they exploded one by one, men behind them doing their best to cover their faces with their hands in protection from the sharp pieces of ice hitting them with every explosion.

Jon did it, Melisandre sighed. He did it. He defeated death.

Jon.

She rushed straight for the body.

Those beautiful grey eyes looked as if they were merely admiring the sky above, the handsome face so peaceful, as if laying in grass on a spring day, watching the clouds go by.

Jon was gone.

*****

The shrieks of the dead were mind boggling, Humfrey instinctively moved to cover Griff’s body, sword in hand, awaiting an attack. But it seemed that the dead lost direction. Those that made it through – and there were already dozens who made it through the lines – seemed to have begun to wonder where and what they were supposed to do.

Then suddenly, they fell.

Humfrey couldn’t believe his eyes. Eyebrows drawn high; mouth dropped he kept looking around. Griff slowly sat up, doing the same. A walker on a horse in the distance caught their eye. It seemed as if it was made of ice, then suddenly it shattered into countless pieces.

Griff laughed aloud at the sight.

*****

The fall was hard, Sansa could feel the pain as she hit the ground, perhaps even breaking bones, her mind registered. The dead seemed to have forgotten about her, as if there was something more interesting, they didn’t seem eager to finish her off while she was at her most vulnerable. She watched her horse stumbling away from the grips that loosened around it, covered in blood.

Then as the horse moved out of her line of sight, she saw, a walker stood above Howland Reed. And Reed’s hand was desperately trying to reach his sword nearby laying on the ground.

Sansa began to crawl, between wights who now clearly couldn’t care less, all their frozen eyes were firmly on the walker. She couldn’t understand, she concluded that they wanted Reed, more than her. After all she’s just a woman, barely knowing anything about swords and fights, but Howland… He is a greenseeer, a warg.

She crawled between rotting legs, her stomach turning at the close vicinity, the smell of them, and she watched.

The walker looked up, straight at her. But it seemed as if it didn’t even see her, its face turning to one of panic, as its skin seemed to freeze, until it seemed more an ice statue. Then it shattered, and with it, the rotting corpses fell. They fell on her, with all their weight. She screamed.

*****

Arya stood at the ready, still chanting the same two words for herself, not today. Not today.

They fell. All of them fell dead at once.

She waited, looking around, seeing the stunned faces of Brienne and Jaime Lannister, and Sandor Clegane behind them, as they all did the same. Finally, she dared to get closer to the nearest one – the one she meant to cut down first, the one that was already launching at her from the door that meant sanctuary.

She poked it with needle, but it didn’t move. She poked some more, before she kicked it, and the body turned to its back. There were no shining blue eyes looking at her, there was only black emptiness in the eye sockets. She finally exhaled.

*****

It took quite the strength to manage to crawl out from under the pile of corpses, and once she managed, she could see Ser Davos struggling with the same just near her. But unlike her, Davos could stand on his feet once he broke free, and thus reached Howland Reed before she managed to drag her own weight there.

The tears broke free as she clung to Reed’s chest, her hands doing what they could to brush the blood off his face. He was still alive, his eyes wide open, on his face an expression of pure happiness. Davos was examining him.

“As if they lost sight of us,” Reed whispered, and Davos nodded. On his face there was no happiness, only worry. Reed was in grave condition; Sansa could read it from Ser Davos’ eyes.

“They did,” she smiled at Reed, who finally looked at her then.

“And the walker,” he whispered, “it froze, and it shattered, and all of them fell with it. That can only mean one thing.”

She nodded. She understood – Jon has killed the Night King.

But she understood more, as she looked ahead toward the battlefield, where the cries came from. Dragon cries, desperate, painful, furious shrieks. She understood that Jon didn’t survive it, as she ducked her head into Reed’s coat and sobbed.

*****

“My brother succeeded,” Arya declared with her usual cold and calm demeanour, as if the fight for their lives just moments before was nothing more than a mere bother, a childsplay.

“My brother has killed the Night King.”

“Yes,” Jaime whispered, still staring at the bodies.

“Have you released him,” Arya turned to Jaime.

“He’s never been here,” Jaime shook his head, “Cersei never had him. Something went wrong she said, she was supposed to have him. I presume he escaped, thank goodness, for she would’ve never released him.”

“She would’ve rather died if she can take all of us with her,” Arya agreed.

Jaime’s face was painful yet resolute as his eyes met Arya’s, “She’s dead.”

“Yes, I suppose you are a queenslayer now, as well,” Arya smirked, “I wanted the title for myself.”

“You can have it,” Jaime chuckled, “It won’t bring you much appreciation. But you did kill her, the second time.”

Arya moved toward the door, careful still, albeit wondering why she was eager not to disturb the dead bodies around them. They still had to make it out of the city without burning alive, preferably. They still had to make it through the catacombs.

“Are we going to fucking leave, or what” Arya chuckled at hearing Sandor Clegane behind Brienne.

“He isn’t your brother you know,” Jaime said then, “He’s a Targaryen. He’s the rightful king.”

“Is that why you stabbed your sister,” Arya hissed, “To place Jon on the throne?”

She glanced back, at Brienne’s shocked face hearing the conversation, and even more at Jaime’s answer.

“No, and yes,” Jaime said. “I was called Kingslayer all my life, for killing a king who meant to do what Cersei did. She did it, she burned the whole city with Aerys’ wildfire caches. Any ruler who believes fire to be a weapon should not sit on the Iron Throne, Arya Stark. That leaves only Jon, because he is not your brother. He’s the rightful heir, and he would’ve never burned innocents alive, with wildfire, dragonfire, any kind of fire.”

Arya shrugged. “You can join the queue of people wanting him on the throne when we made it out of here,” she said calmly, “But you’re wrong. He is my brother; he will always be my brother. Whatever his name is.”

Then she opened the door to the catacombs.

*****

“Āeksios Ōño,” Melisandre called out desperately. “Aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys!”

The Fiery Hand shouted as one, “Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys!” They then dismounted, encircling the body and the kneeling priestess beside it. They all went down to their knees. Tormund watched in complete disbelief. All he wanted was to get close and see, and some of the freefolk began to try and fight their way through the kneeling soldiers, who merely kicked them back, before they turned toward the priestess once more. Not that there was anything more to see, he could see perfectly well from where he stood, Jon’s empty grey eyes staring at the sky. He was as dead as one can be.

Melisandre turned toward the body, still caressing the peaceful face. “Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon.”

She glanced up, straight at Tormund. He wondered where he heard this before, for a moment. Of course – that night at Castle Black, after Edd Tollett rode out to them, and told them what the Nights Watch has done to Jon, and they took that wooden rubble they called a castle. He stood by the table watching as the red woman washed Jon’s naked body. That’s when he heard these funny words before. She was trying to bring him back.

Tormund decided he was quite content with that. Hopeful even, he raised his hand, and the freefolk stopped trying to get through the lines of the Fiery Hand encircling the scene.

“Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon. Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”

Nothing happened. Tormund didn’t worry, after all the last time was no different.

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”

Still nothing, not even a glimpse of hope, not even the smallest of signs that it could work.

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”

She looked up at him once more, he could see the panic in her eyes.

*****

“We have to return to the army,” Sansa whispered to Davos, now seeing to her dislocated knee. He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder, instead of a response, as he leaned down, his other hand firmly on the knee.

“This will hurt,” he said.

“Story of my life,” Sansa hissed, and he slammed his fist on the bone protruding on the side. She wasn’t prepared, she screamed. It did hurt.

“You won’t walk for a few days,” Davos declared as he stood, "Your grace, but you will walk as if nothing happened, soon after.”

“What about… Howland,” She whispered then.

“I am no maester,” Davos said lowly, “He needs a maester, the sooner the better.”

“We have to return to the army,” Sansa repeated, toward the guards. “Be careful lifting Lord Reed, we will return to Lord Baelor’s camp.”

The men merely nodded, their faces speaking more than any words could, of their disbelief of the fight, what they fought, how they survived it. There wasn’t even twenty of them still standing. The rest has fallen, Sansa told herself bitterly, out of fifty, at least thirty have fallen. They surely had families, children. They died protecting a queen foreign to them.

*****

Varys leisurely put his hands in his pockets, turning to the black caped man.

“It is time,” he declared, and the man nodded, leaving their little group toward the battlefield. Then Varys turned to Tyrion.

“See, all is well, my friend,” he smiled, “just as I told you that it will.”

“It was nothing more than wishful thinking, we both know it,” Tyrion hissed. “I still don’t understand why you did what you did. The dragon could’ve helped in the battle, could’ve burned them by the thousands. You couldn’t have known that they will fall.”

“Oh but I did know,” Varys looked at him knowingly. “I am always prepared, my Lord. You should know that by now, I am always prepared for every eventuality.”

“One day,” Tyrion mused aloud, “I would be interested how you, Varys, prepared for an army of rotting corpses.”

Varys nodded to him with a grin, “One day, perhaps you will find out, my friend.”

He stepped past Tyrion then, leaning down to check on the Queen. He gently brushed a lock of hair out of her peaceful face.

“Not long now,” he whispered, “One more thing to accomplish.”

Tyrion watched as Redwyne’s men stood into battle formation beside them.

“Now that is something,” He remarked, “They stood aside in the greatest battle, like the cowards they are, and now they stand to fight. Who will you fight if I may ask?”

Varys raised an eyebrow as he turned back toward Tyrion.

“Don’t take me for a fool,” Tyrion hissed. “Redwyne is not here for the Queen, he is here for you, and whatever plan you have in motion. Who do you want to fight?”

“Anyone who would oppose, I guess,” Varys shrugged. “You are wrong, my friend. Lord Redwyne is here for the Queen, for the Lordship Paramount. Only, he knew how is best to secure it.”

Tyrion turned away from him, watching the black caped man instead, as he walked into the battlefield, zigzagging around what Tyrion assumed to be corpses.

He began to piece together what he knew. For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of Varys serving Cersei. Cersei would’ve wanted Daenerys alive, only to torture her for who knows how long. Like the story about Ellaria Sand, rumours that went around in the camps about the Mad Queen holding a mad dornish woman in the black cells, beside the rotting corpse of her daughter.

No, Varys still wanted Daenerys on the throne. He went about it quite unusually, in this case. Why then…

Jon. Varys didn’t want Jon on the throne, or anywhere near it. Or anywhere near the Queen. Jon was a problem to deal with. Varys dealt with the problem, or so he thought. Tyrion Lannister, you are a fool indeed, it was all in front of your eyes, all along. Yours, and no one else’s, if only you’ve looked, you would’ve seen.

His eyes settled on the shape of the black caped man, and it all came together.

The man drew a sword. Even in the distance, he could recognise it, the crimson light of the large ruby shining in the pale sunlight.

In his other hand was a horn. Now he blew it.

*****

Griff’s eyes burst open in an instant.

“Listen,” he whispered to Humfrey, just as Humfrey meant to speak.

A horn sounded, one long blast, longer than any signal Humfrey could recall.

“Help me up,” Griff hissed.

“You’re in no shape to be on your feet,” Humfrey pushed him back onto the ground, “Wait for the maester.”

“Help me up, boy!” Griff shouted, so loud that it startled Humfrey. He did as he was told, shrugging it off annoyed.

“Look around you,” Griff hissed, so he did.

Men of the company began to move, toward the horn that sounded once more.

Griff already had an arm around his shoulder, having decided that he will limp closer with Humfrey’s aid.

“What’s that horn,” Humfrey asked.

“Our warhorn,” Griff said lowly, “Jon is supposed to have it. The leader has the horn and the sword. The company follows the man who wields the sword, have you ever heard that?”

Humfrey nodded. The Golden Company followed the sword of Bittersteel, every boy knew that.

“Well, the man who wields the sword has to give orders efficiently to twenty thousand,” Griff explained, “That is the horn he uses to do it. No man of the company would mistake that sound to anything else, it is our warhorn. Someone is calling the men.”

“Jon, surely,” Humfrey remarked.

“Why would Jon call on the men after battle,” Griff said, glancing back at the crying green dragon above, “When his dragon mourns him. Humfrey Hightower, you know very little of the world. Jon Targaryen is dead, and someone is already claiming his place.”

*****

Tyrion watched as the man stood. He walked closer, surprised that no one tried to stop him. But then, it wasn’t so surprising after all. What could one dwarf do amidst tens of thousands of soldiers against him?

He just walked following the man, watching as he kept blowing his horn.

He was certain now, it was Blackfyre in the man’s hand.

“Connington!” The man shouted out. “Come on Griff, show your face!”

*****

The men parted in front of them, as Humfrey helped Griff limp to the front. He sensed the commander tensing as he heard the call for his name, hurrying even more to reach the clearing, to see.

A single man stood in the clearing with his back toward them, a long black cape. He didn’t see the face, but Humfrey knew already, how naïve he actually was. This could not be Jon Targaryen.

Then the man turned.

“There you are,” He laughed as he recognised the commander, still hanging his weight off Humfrey’s shoulder.

“Who is this man,” Humfrey whispered.

“Myles Thoyne,” Griff hissed, “My missing sergeant. One of them two missing sergeants. Missing since the company turned to follow Jon.”

Then he let go of Humfrey’s shoulder, instead his hand went to grip the handle of his sword.

“Traitor!” Griff shouted toward the man.

The man just stood there, laughing.

“Who is the traitor,” He asked, “You are indeed a traitor, Griff, you turned the company while in contract! You handed command to a Targaryen! Bittersteel would have never followed a Targaryen!”

Humfrey looked around at hearing some of the men rumble at that. True, he reminded himself – Bittersteel fought Targaryens, not followed them.

“So you took it upon yourself to avenge Cersei Lannister and good old Harry Strickland,” Griff called out, “The commander who took a Lordship as payment, you are an even bigger idiot than I thought, Myles!”

“Strickland was a cunt,” Thoyne laughed, “I don’t give two fucks about Strickland. Or your dragonboy, but I hope you had some fun while your marriage lasted,” he grinned, motioning a man in… Humfrey tilted his head, no a dog, in carnal union with another. “You won’t get another chance Griff, I am sorry to break the news to you, dragonboy is dead!”

This can’t be. Who dealt with the Night King then, Humfrey wondered. Something didn’t add up, and he couldn’t tell what. But he could see that Griff was furious at the implication of him… well, if someone said that about Humfrey and a man, perhaps he’d be furious too. Perhaps he wouldn’t care a single bit, after all, there’s more to a man than what’s seen, no one knew that better than him, he reminded himself.

“Enough of the pleasantries,” Thoyne called out, “Let us talk business!”

He raised a sword high in the air. Humfrey didn’t need Griff to tell him, he recognised it immediately. There wasn’t a living male in Westeros who wouldn’t have recognised that sword – Blackfyre.

“The company follows the man who wields the sword,” Thoyne yelled. “Seems to me, that man is me! I have Blackfyre, I blew the horn! Honour your oaths or die a traitor’s death!”

At once, a whole army jumped to position behind the man.

“Redwyne, you snake,” Humfrey hissed.

To the north of the clearing, more men stood now. No doubt the northmen, watching the scene, he thought. They stood there, silently.

“There is to be an election,” A man to their right shouted, deep in the crowd of company members.

“Aye, that is our way,” another shouted. More and more men shouted their agreement with this assessment, and Humfrey exhaled.

“I had an election,” Thoyne called out, “Lothston wanted the position, do you see Lothston here? That is how that election went.”

“Who’s Lothston,” Humfrey asked Griff, “Your other missing sergeant?”

Griff just nodded. He seemed sad now, so very sad.

“Jon Targaryen has not been elected,” Thoyne called out, “Only Griff’s fat cock would elect a Targaryen boy, so I say, fuck your election! Anyone wishing to challenge me, come forth! I have the sword, and I am eager to wash it!”

Humfrey heard Griff sigh beside him.

“Who dares to challenge me?!” Thoyne called out once more, turning toward Griff, “Come on Griff, be the man you aren’t, are you going to fight me or what?”

He turned toward the northmen then, “Any of you? No, I didn’t think so,” he laughed, “I tell you what, I’ll be recruiting after this little business, if any of you want to leave Edric Snow here’s your chance to join the company!”

Edric Snow wasn’t standing there, Humfrey realised. That could’ve only meant one thing – Edric has fallen. Sansa will be very sad about that. He felt Griff moving, trying to get in front of him.

“What are you doing,” He hissed, holding back the commander.

“What any sane man should be doing,” Griff hissed, “Kill him.”

“You would only kill yourself,” Humfrey argued, “You can barely stand on your feet, if a maester doesn’t see to you you’ll be dead come morning anyway.”

Griff chuckled.

“Valar morghūlis.” He said, as he began to draw his sword.

“Valar dohaeris,” Humfrey whispered, and Griff raised an eyebrow in surprise. “All men must serve, but this is not your time to serve. Stand down, Jon Connington.”

“And allow Crazy Thoyne take Jon’s army?” Griff hissed, “We gave up being sellswords, for what that was worth, we chose to fight for Jon, all the sergeants did. Thoyne said nothing then, he’s a fucking coward. Now he has Jon’s sword. He’s insulted me, you heard it. I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t fight.”

“Then let me be your champion,” Humfrey declared. He wondered why, he didn’t really think this through, clearly. But then, why not.

“Are you mad,” Griff hissed, “Thoyne is one of the greatest swordsmen I ever saw. And I’ve seen some great men, Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne… He’s up there. That is why no one challenges him.”

“All the more reason for a half-dead man like you to nominate a champion,” Humfrey argued, “And again, you’ve not seen me fight, Griff.”

“I’ve seen you fight, boy,” Griff said, more desperately, “The future of the North hangs on your shoulders, I cannot allow…”

Humfrey turned, toward Thoyne, watching the scene.

“Myles Thoyne,” Humfrey called out, “Is that your name?”

“Why you want my name, pretty boy,” Thoyne called out to him.

“I like to know the names of men I kill,” Humfrey declared as if it was nothing. He pushed Griff back into the crowd, somewhat harder than he meant to, the man almost lost his fragile balance. His men caught him.

“Hold on to him,” he whispered to them, “Whatever unfolds, hold on to him. Get him to the maester.”

The men nodded.

As he turned away and walked onto the clearing, he wondered what he’s seen in their eyes. As if they were grateful. Perhaps they were, for their commander to live a little longer. Perhaps they really were afraid to fight Myles Thoyne. Perhaps he should be afraid, too. He wasn’t.

“Now this is something,” Thoyne called out, clearly to arouse the crowd, as Humfrey neared him. “Pretty boy, in pretty armour, Griff chooses his toys well, I can see.”

Humfrey chuckled. Empty words, meant as insults. Some men laughed, but it was insignificant. Too insignificant for Thoyne to shut up.

Humfrey raised Vigilance, as he took up position.

“That is a nice little sword,” Thoyne nodded appreciatively, “Perhaps I’ll take it from you boy, and wash it in your blood. I always wanted a Valyrian sword, now I’ll have two.”

“You won’t have need for a sword,” Humfrey said calmly.

“Oh yes I do,” Thoyne grinned, “I’ll be the next Sword of the Morning!”

At that, much more of the men laughed. Humfrey wondered if they found the claim that implausible, or they laughed at him.

“You besmirch the memory of Ser Arthur Dayne,” he said, “You are not worthy to be called that, you’ll never be.”

“You grew up on pretty stories, boy,” Thoyne took position, raising Blackfyre. “You’re a little lordling, aren’t you? The world is not made of fairy-tale stories, boy, now I’ll teach you. Say goodbye to that pretty sword. It’s mine now.”

“Over my dead body,” Humfrey hissed. His mind already began, cutting out the noise, the sight of men surrounding, focusing on the opponent ahead, his vision sharpened, widened, every inch of him focusing on the man he intended to kill. As if Thoyne’s words came from far away. Words lie. Arms, legs, body moving, speaking to him now to tell him the truth, and Humfrey began to watch. To see.

“Yes boy,” Thoyne hissed, “Over your dead body.” Then he launched at Humfrey.

Not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still down with the flu / head cold / whatever it is that got to me, so this chapter took me days to write - also because it's the most important chapter in the story IMHO.  
> It took 75 chapters to get to this point - as much as it could take to counter the "one battle Arya is AA" BS. I really hope I did this justice...  
> And, I wonder if anyone picks up the little clues buried in this chapter ☺️


	76. The Iron Throne I.

 

He was good, Humfrey had to agree. But he wasn’t better than him.

Light as a feather, he moved and moved out of each attack, merely avoiding, never spending a single ounce of wasted effort, merely causing Thoyne to circle around him in effect. Quiet as a shadow, he stepped in every single time to counterattack.

But there was a quality they shared – they were both quick. He was quicker than Humfrey in fact, and Humfrey had to conclude, he was somewhat out of practice.

It’s been a long time since the boy waterdancing. The son of the Lord of Hightower didn’t really require much practice, and now, he regretted neglecting it. He used to be better, swifter.

There was one thing that didn’t change though – years of training instilled in his mind to see. As Thoyne kept loudly proclaiming whatever insult came to his mind, he also kept enticing him with clues of the next move, and the one after it. Humfrey not once fell for the rouse.

At a split moment he wondered what Griff thought, did he still think that he saw him fight before? It was merely a split moment, while Thoyne turned around in front of him, but Humfrey concluded, surely not. This was not the slashing and cutting into a mass of rotting corpses.

At another moment he wondered who thought Thoyne to fight. There were moves familiar, but not exactly the same as he was thought, especially since he began to put his own spin on the dance.

He brushed the thoughts aside as he almost missed a move. He had to focus. He can play this game for hours, he told himself, if only he focused. Patience. Vigilance. What a fitting name for a sword. Yes, Humfrey could dance for hours, because he had the patience. Thoyne clearly didn’t. He will tire, Humfrey decided on the strategy, he will tire of the dance and he will begin to make mistakes, out of frustration and annoyance that Humfrey left behind as a boy.

*****

“That’s not good,” Redwyne shook his head.

“It’s only expected,” Varys shrugged. Tyrion stood beside them, merely listening to the conversation. Wondering if he’ll learn anything new. They didn’t speak much, these two, to Tyrion’s dismay – he would’ve preferred if Varys suddenly becomes eager to talk through his plot with Redwyne in great detail, but this was of course Varys. Short on words, as always.

“No reason to worry,” Varys declared, watching Lord Redwyne’s sour face. “Thoyne is the best fighter among them, none of them can defeat him.”

“That is not one of them,” Redwyne hissed. Tyrion wondered why Varys didn’t recognise the boy in armour wasn’t of the company – it was crystal clear, that armour was fine work, the blade Valyrian steel, the boy’s face way too smooth to be that of a sellsword Essosi. This was a lord, son of a lord, and very much Westerosi – albeit Tyrion couldn’t tell that from the constant swirling out of each attack. That wasn’t anything Westerosi he’s seen before, but just in that moment, Redwyne confirmed his assessment of the rest.

“That’s the Hightower boy, the youngest,” Redwyne declared. “Humfrey Hightower. Fucking necromancer, and worse.”

“Worse?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow, “The boy looks like a ten-year-old. I can see the freckles on his nose even from here.”

“That boy went missing for two full years,” Redwyne declared, “Leyton Hightower was beside himself, he doted on the boy.”

“Missing,” Tyrion noted to himself.

“Aye, missing,” Redwyne repeated, before taking the bait to explain further. “Turned out the boy wanted to see what’s beyond the Narrow Sea. Enlisted as a sailor, if I recall correctly. Then I suppose money ran out or something, he returned home as if nothing happened. I don’t know the details. Leyton was struck with grief when the boy disappeared, like I said. He doted on the boy, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the boy. Once he brought a maegi to teach the boy. Then he brought some Essosi swordsman from Braavos.”

“Hmmm,” Tyrion noted to himself what he’s heard. Not the story, he didn’t care much about how some lordling spread his wings in youth. The name mattered more – Hightower. A firm favourite of Lord Leyton, the youngest of his brood. Tyrion tried to recall how many sons Lord Leyton had – not an easy task, the man had four wives, about a dozen children, Tyrion couldn’t even recall all their names.

Ser Jorah was married to a Hightower once. Lynesse, yes, that was her name. An expensive wife, in another place with another man, Tyrion recalled. In Lys, he knew, he even recalled the name – it was a point of discussion at one time in every hall and keep in Westeros, Tregar Ormollen.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Varys’ voice was smooth, “The boy won’t defeat Thoyne by dancing around him. Sooner or later Thoyne will get him.”

“Have you not heard, eunuch,” Redwyne cried out. Short temper, and these southerners don’t seem to have much care to choose their words well. Must run in the blood, he concluded. Olenna Tyrell was not called Queen of Thorns without reason, gods, she had a tongue sharper than the sword in young Hightower’s hand.

“If Humfrey Hightower is here, do you think he came alone,” Redwyne continued. “He’s here, that means Baelor is here. He dotes on his brother like his father did. And if Baelor is here, so are his twenty thousand.”

Now, that was what Tyrion has been waiting for.

“Twenty thousand, you say,” Varys remarked, glancing at Tyrion who shrugged as if it was nothing. As if he gave up on the whole lot. “How many could be left of that twenty thousand after the dead? Thoyne will turn the Golden Company, no army in Westeros can defeat the Company.”

Now that’s an optimistic statement, Tyrion noted to himself. The Wolves were now considered a Westerosi army, were they not?

Then there are the northmen, the knights of the Vale – if there’s any of them still breathing. Add Hightower’s twenty thousand, and the odds are at best even. But he merely raised an eyebrow at it.

“I say, it’s good entertainment,” he said, “I needed some entertainment. The day has been way too dire for my taste thus far. Now if only one had a flask of wine, and I’d be content.”

He was content, with what he learned. Once more there was a chance of things turning out well – albeit he had to admit, the chance was slimmer than defeating the dead had been.

Perhaps a dragon will burn them all. Or a pack of direwolves will tear them to pieces. All the hopes in dragons and direwolves, Tyrion glanced at Varys once more.

The spider was deep in thought. He’s put it together, Tyrion conceded. He added up the numbers. He wasn’t stupid – he must’ve seen the slim chance appearing in the form of Humfrey Hightower and all he represented.

*****

Arya moved quietly – like a shadow – in the relative darkness. She needed no torch to see. She would’ve needed no light to see, even though she was quite ahead of them, scouting the way. She would’ve preferred darkness.

There was no darkness. The catacombs were alit by torches neatly tucked into their handles on the walls. This was new – when she was here, there were no such torches.

Perhaps Cersei was afraid of dragonskulls. Or darkness itself. Arya wasn’t afraid of either.

She came to a halt, waiting for the others.

“Even a deaf man would hear you stumbling around,” she whispered as they arrived, “Are you stepping on anything that can make a sound on purpose?”

“Ser Jaime cannot walk on his own,” Brienne said defensively, “I think his leg is broken.”

“Balerion the Dread,” Jaime declared then, looking at the skull.

“Imagine him while he lived,” Arya said in awe.

But it was merely a skull, not a dragon. Even more so, the skull had a spear firmly lodged in the bone.

“Qyburn’s Scorpion,” Jaime nodded toward it, “We shot it at Daenerys at the Rush. Wounded the dragon there. This was where Qyburn tested it with Cersei.”

“On Balerion’s skull,” Arya’s eyes narrowed as she spoke, she found it despicable, as if defacing the Mother herself. But then again, Cersei blew up the whole Great Sept. Nothing was doo despicable for the Mad Queen.

“Better not tell the Dragon Queen then,” Clegane smirked.

“Better not,” Arya repeated as she turned to move. She could smell smoke – they had to hurry, before the smoke conquers the path and suffocates them. It wasn’t far, she reminded herself. Soon, they’ll be out of this accursed place and she’ll never return. Never.

She turned on the corridor, only to see that the long path was just as neatly alit with torches.

“There should not be torches,” Jaime whispered, affirming Arya’s earlier thoughts. She reached for Needle; she could hear behind her Clegane drawing his sword as she rushed ahead to see.

*****

Sansa was lifted off the horse, a soldier carried her into the command tent, and placed her into a chair. She nodded her thanks, her eyes already studying the scene.

The maester was indeed here – attending to Lord Baelor.

“How serious,” She asked.

“Just a scratch,” Baelor forced a smile on his face.

“A serious scratch,” the maester turned toward Sansa. His face was sullen, old and weary. “Nearly took the arm.”

“You must forgive Maester Tybalt, your grace,” Baelor said softly, weakly, “He’s the third measter we had in my lifetime and by far the best. But he’s also the most pessimistic.”

“Someone has to be realistic, my Lord,” the maester smiled, “With my lord and your brothers, there is need for reality check time to time.”

Sansa had to chuckle. It’s been a long while, but the old maester reminded him of Luwin, still, the depth of love behind his words for the younger generation of the house he served was clearly proclaimed.

“My Hand, Lord Reed is gravely injured,” she said then, “Would you see to him, Maester Tybalt.”

“At once, your grace,” Baelor responded instead, waving the maester away, “He’s finished here.” He nodded and the maester swiftly gathered his supplies. As he did, his gaze fell on Sansa.

“What about you, your grace,” he asked.

“Nothing serious,” she smiled, “Scratches. A twisted knee, now repaired.”

The maester’s gaze fell on her hand.

“That,” he reached out, taking the hand in his own. His fingers gently stretched hers, to see. “This has been one grave injury, finely attended to.”

“By Lord Reed,” Sansa nodded, “Please repay his kindness to me by doing the same to him,” her eyes met the maester’s, “I cannot lose him,” she finished, her words only a whisper.

The maester bowed deeply and rushed out of the tent.

“Grave injury?”

Sansa’s eyes met Baelor’s. “The dead took Greywater watch; they were in my room. My own guards, with Lord Reed’s right-hand man, all turned. I couldn’t have cut them down, so I grabbed a log from the hearth to burn them.”

Baelor nodded with a sigh, as Sansa wondered just how matter-of-fact she sounded, how she omitted the fact that she burned down Greywater Watch itself with those dead men.

“I cannot imagine how hard this war had been,” Baelor whispered. “One battle, that’s what we fought. You fought how many? How long have you been fighting them?”

“I did nothing,” Sansa whispered, her gaze lost in the distance, she couldn’t tell what she was looking at. “Jon led the fight, he united the North against Ramsay, united us with Daenerys and Jaime Lannister, the freefolk… But I can tell you how many battles. Castle Black, Last Hearth, The Long Lake, Winterfell, White Harbor, Castle Cerwyn, The marshes, Greywater Watch, the Gods Eye… and this. Eleven battles south the wall. He also fought them at Hardhome, trying to save the Freefolk. The Nights Watch fought them at the Fist of the First Men. If only men believed old stories, if only we manned the wall… we would’ve never had the dead conquer half of Westeros.”

“Much more than half,” Baelor remarked. “There’s only the Reach, the Stormlands and Dorne left unaffected, and we cannot be certain of even that.”

“The war is over, Lord Baelor,” Sansa declared then, her voice sad, sadder than she meant to allow it to be.

“Yes, it seems to be,” Baelor agreed, “But there are wars yet to come.”

“Not if we can avoid it,” Sansa smiled at the Lord. “There’s been enough bloodshed, for years… We have to learn from the past.”

“Have you ever wondered, your grace, why Hightower never took part in conquests and rebellions,” Baelor asked.

“Influence of the Citadel, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Baelor nodded, “Perhaps we learned from the past. Rulers change, dynasties rise and fall, disappear and new ones take their place. The wheel turns. For long, we took no part in turning the wheel. Aegon came and conquered. Hightower didn’t march to the Field of Fire; we opened our gates and the Citadel declared him. Then Baratheon overthrew the Targaryen rule, and Hightower did nothing to oppose or defend it. Old Town opened its gates, and the Citadel proclaimed King Robert, first of his name. Wars start and end, nothing endures. Nothing but knowledge.”

“And knowledge is power,” Sansa remarked, “It is the greatest power of all. But you made a marriage pact.”

“Marriages and alliances have always tied Hightower to whomever was at the top, just as much as whomever was at the bottom,” Baelor explained, “No dynasty endures without playing the game, but playing the game does not equal bloodshed. Shame not all has learned this lesson, so now we are all fighting.”

“My cousin,” Sansa nodded, “You support my cousin because he is averse to the wheel, as you call it. Because he supports the people. Sam and Davos must’ve told you about him.”

“We shall speak of it once more urgent matters have been settled,” Baelor stood and poured wine into two chalices, “And I know my brother has survived.”

“Where’s your brother,” Sansa asked curiously, seeing the worrisome look that overtook his eyes.

“I know not,” Baelor whispered, “Last I’ve seen him he was fighting beside the Golden Company commander. Then the green dragon breathed fire on where they stood.”

*****

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”

Melisandre whispered her prayer; she couldn’t tell how many times by now. There was no sign of life. She didn’t feel it.

At least at Castle Black, she felt the warmth of hope, the warmth of the fire burning inside as she washed Jon Snow’s body, prepared it for its new life, for the spirit to claim it once more.

Not now. There was no way to prepare it now, albeit she did what she could, gently wiping the blood off the face, combing the dark curls with her fingers.

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”

Her tears finally began to roll. It was not to be, she knew.

“The Lord doesn’t want his spirit to return,” she said sadly as she looked up, straight into Tormund’s eyes.

“Can’t you make him return,” Tormund asked desperately.

“He’s had a purpose,” Melisandre whispered, “He’s fulfilled that purpose. The Lord would have him rest.”

“Fuck the Lord, then,” Tormund cried out. “Make him! Bring him back!”

Just then, the green dragon landed in the clearing, the makeshift arena circled still by fire, for Jon to fight. It cried out, and finally, Melisandre stood. One last glance at the peaceful handsome face, and she walked away, to stand beside Tormund. To say her own goodbye.

*****

“What is he doing,” a man cried out, “Why doesn’t he fight?”

Griff shot an angry look toward the man, “Why didn’t you go and fight?”

“You know why,” the man shot back.

“There is truth in what he said, Griff,” the man on his other side declared, albeit the voice was kind, not confrontational, “we broke contract. You took us to follow a Targaryen.”

“Do you think Thoyne wants us to honour that contract,” Griff hissed, “Look behind you, where do you think the Mad Queen is now? Burned to crisp most likely. No, Thoyne just wants power. He always did.”

He shook the hands off that held his arms.

“The boy said you should stay, Griff,” the man beside him reminded him, once more, kindly, in a soothing tone he couldn’t disagree with.

“I’m going nowhere,” Griff whispered, “These legs would not take me.” It was true. He wondered when he’ll fall to the ground. He was bleeding, he knew, he felt the clothes under his chainmail soaked. He felt the sharp pain of where he’s been stabbed.

His eyes returned to the boy. He had to chuckle, how all of them called Humfrey Hightower a boy. That’s what it was to them, another lordling wanting to make something of himself. They all called him a boy all those years ago when he joined. He also had to prove himself.

“To answer your question,” he turned to the man who so frustratingly questioned what the ‘boy’ was doing, “He is fighting. Can’t blame him for not falling on Blackfyre. No, boy is smarter than that.”

“We’ll stand here for hours watching him dance around it instead,” the man hissed.

“We certainly will,” Griff grinned, “Though I believe Thoyne will lose it before long. That is what the boy is doing, I am sure of it. He may be a boy but a smart one. He recognises a fool when he sees one.”

*****

Tyrion has been watching the fight, but lately, he’s been watching the green dragon. It’s been crying, far worse than the black one, that’s been circling above the city, by now silently, calmly. No, Rhaegal cried worse than it did at the Gods Eye even, and it didn’t seem to Tyrion that he was searching this time either.

No, it knew where it was going, it circled to the north of them, for quite a while.

Then it landed, and Tyrion could not see it anymore. He could only wonder what the dragon found there, hoping it’s not what he feared. Judging by the dragon’s behaviour, he was trying to prepare himself to the opposite of his hopes.

“Lord Varys,” a soldier called out behind them, and Tyrion turned just as well.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Now here is a rational man,” he grinned. “Have you come to watch the entertainment? I presume my sweet sister has no longer any need of you.”

“I presume she does not,” Qyburn remarked with a straight face.

He was in on it, Tyrion knew at once, watching as Qyburn’s eyes dismissed him altogether, turning toward Varys. Then his mask fell, as if greeting an old friend.

“Stunning work,” Varys remarked, “I congratulate you.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. This made no sense at all.

“I’ve done nothing, my Lord,” Qyburn said hesitantly. “I merely just left. I had to burn two dead guards on my way out.”

“What about Cersei,” Redwyne interrupted.

“Left her with her traitorous brother,” Qyburn shrugged, “Ser Jaime did his best to convince the Queen of his loyalty, but as far as I can tell he was tiring of it.”

“You left my brother with that monster Mountain?” Tyrion hissed.

Qyburn gave him one more emotionless glance, before his eyes returned to Varys as Varys repeated his words, “Why do you mean you’ve done nothing?”

“I’ve done nothing,” Qyburn confirmed, “I had no time. It took this long to leave the Queen, and now that I am here, I see no dead men. Someone else did it.”

Did what, Tyrion wondered. Did Varys believe that Qyburn had the means to stop the dead? Was this Varys’ grand plan of preparing for every eventuality?

Qyburn created the Mountain, Tyrion reminded himself. Who knows what kind of sick knowledge lived in his mind? Varys seemed to be convinced that he did, but now, Varys didn’t seem so certain either. He turned and looked around, at the scene of the two fighting men.

Tyrion turned as well. By now it was obvious that Varys’ black caped champion was losing his patience. He lashed out more and more abruptly, aimlessly. He no longer shouted insults to the Hightower boy, he just shouted, Fight! Fight you coward!”

And the boy smiled every now and then, barely visibly, but every time Tyrion saw it, he wanted to smile with him.

Smart boy. He kept on doing what he’s been doing ever since this fight began, avoiding strikes, striking back, retreating at distance and waiting. Not once did the boy launch in earnest or move more than was necessary to make a fool of his opponent, causing him to run around. Tyrion remembered a game he once saw. A man was taunting a bull with a red cape. Every time the bull launched at him, or better said, at the taunting cape waved in front of its eyes, the man merely moved the cape to his other side. The bull ended up running back and forth around the man. That was exactly what Varys’ fool of a bull was doing now, running around the fine Valyrian steel sword of the Hightower boy.

Smart boy, Tyrion concluded, very smart. Certainly smarter than Redwyne. Perhaps if he’ll have the chance, he’ll offer Daenerys good counsel regarding the Lordship Paramount. If the boy was any indication, there certainly were better candidates than the one demanding it from the Queen.

*****

“He lived all his life,” Melisandre sobbed, “Not knowing who he was, and he still fought, all his life.”

Tormund could merely nod. It took all his willpower not to allow the tears break free, not in front of his men. He didn’t cry for Jon the first time he saw Jon dead. Now he found, he would, but not here. When he’s alone, he’ll mourn. Now he’ll stand, in respect.

“Jon is king,” he whispered, “We used to call him King Crow. He was King south the wall, fancy Lords argue that he still should’ve been king of all Westeros. Jon is king.”

“He deserved a life,” Melisandre said lowly, wiping her tears with her sleeve.

The dragon gently came close to the body.

It leaned down, as if sniffing at it. It nudged Jon’s body with its giant snout, and the sound it let out finally broke Tormund turning him into a sobbing mess, like a wolf pup left alone in the cave by its mother, wondering why, afraid, in disbelief.

Then the dragon looked up, straight at them, and it shrieked, loudly crying out. As if blaming them. Tormund felt it right. He sat atop his horse and watched the fight, he never tried to intervene. None of them did. They all watched as Jon sacrificed himself, again. Yes, the dragon was right – they all were to blame, he concluded.

*****

It stung.

Merely a scratch, Humfrey didn’t step out of the way swiftly enough.

Focus, he reminded himself. Patience, vigilance.

Thoyne grinned, as if the scratch was considerable enough a success. Humfrey merely returned the laugh, as he swung to the side, avoiding the next move even before it began. Confusion, then anger overtook Thoyne’s face.

*****

“Stay,” The men hissed, three of them reaching to hold Griff back. He would’ve run in, though his legs never moved – he wasn’t certain they ever could.

He didn’t want to watch the boy die, he only realised just now. He may be watching the boy die. Perhaps the hopes of the North will die with him.

But then he looked up, just as the boy swirled, for lack of better word, out of the way, just as Thoyne was to launch a move. Thoyne’s face turned in an instant, as he raised his sword.

There was a clear opening, Griff wanted to shout at the boy. But the boy saw it too, as he ducked and instead of moving aside, he turned in, under the sword, slashing at Thoyne’s side before he swirled aside once more, stopping behind Thoyne.

Thoyne stumbled. It wasn’t a deep cut; Griff could tell immediately. It was enough to make Thoyne finally lose it in earnest. Griff allowed himself a smile, a somewhat proud smile.

*****

The dragon shrieked once more, its snout nudging the body, again and again. It shrieked straight at them once more. As if asking. No, begging.

“I know,” Melisandre said, “I know he has to live, but how? I tried,” her voice faded into her sob.

The dragon wrapped its wing around the body, laying its head right beside it. The puppy sounds it allowed itself were the only sounds besides the wind, as it mourned.

*****

“This is the best place,” Brienne declared, helping Jaime to sit on a stone. Even sitting wasn’t easy, Jaime concluded.

“Don’t leave here,” Arya declared her order, “Not until I returned.”

“I go with you,” Clegane stepped beside her immediately, and she would’ve protested if not for Jaime Lannister speaking.

“Where will you go?”

“I’ll go to find out what the fuck is going on,” Arya hissed. “You stay here and try to stay alive. I haven’t gone through all this fuss for you to die.”

Then she turned and left, and the Hound rushed behind her.

“Charming girl,” Jaime allowed himself a slight grin.

“Deadly, too,” Brienne nodded, returning the smile as she sat down beside Jaime.

*****

He fell again, the sword barely missing his thigh.

Focus, Humfrey urged himself. If he continued this way, his game will turn on him.

Focus. Thoyne launched yet again, and he rolled to the side, sword at the back ready to receive the next attack. It was time, Humfrey concluded. Time to fight.

*****

“He deserved a life,” she whispered, watching as the dragon cradled the body, wrapping its wing around it protectively.

“Some live long lives, get fat and lazy, because they do nothing, they come and live and go, never changing a thing.” Tormund said lowly, “Some change things, they fight. People who fight don’t get a long life. Those two don’t go well together.”

Mel looked at him lengthily.

“That’s wise,” she whispered.

“No it ain’t,” Tormund shook his head. “It’s just what I’ve seen, at least before they came.  I’ve seen more of it south the wall. All those plum little lords, what was their name? Cerwyn, we called him Whinging Cerwyn. And Grumbling Glover. Jon dragged them around, they wanted saving. They did nothing but grumbling and whinging, they wanted to be important. Then that other one, I was told of. Could barely go down on his knees in front of Jon, was so old. Said he’s never seen the like of what Jon did, so he wanted to serve him.”

“What are you telling me,” Melisandre asked.

“I don’t know,” Tormund answered. “See the dragon above the city? It’s crying. Its mother conquered cities, I was told. This one is crying, too. Those who do things don’t get a long life, that is all. They make a change in their short lives.”

“We all come with a purpose,” Melisandre said as she wiped her tears with her sleeve. “I suppose those who act, as you say, complete theirs sooner.”

“I don’t think we all come with a purpose,” Tormund shrugged. “Most men are shit, and women too. They have no purpose, that is what I am telling you. They find no purpose, they just are. It’s comfortable.”

Melisandre watched the dragon, nudging the body with its snout once more. Its eye was on her, firmly.

“I always thought my purpose is aiding the fight against the Great Other,” she whispered. “I lived a very long life.”

“No you haven’t,” Tormund shrugged.

“You know so little,” Melisandre said. “I thought I knew a lot, turned out I knew so very little. I didn’t even know my purpose.”

“You did help in the fight,” Tormund turned toward her, “You brought Jon back. You brought him here.”

“He deserved more than that,” she whispered, “He told me once, what kind of a God brings back a man only to die again. I didn’t understand.”

“I don’t understand either.”

“If Jon lived,” she asked then, “what do you think he would do.”

“He would kick that Mad Queen’s ass,” Tormund smirked. “And anyone else’s who fucks with him. Hells, he would probably bring down the Wall, whatever is left of it anyways.”

“Exactly,” she sighed.

“He ain’t gonna do nothing,” Tormund shrugged, “He’s dead.”

“Ser Davos would ask me if he has to be,” she said, watching as the dragon raised its head toward her. She slowly began to walk closer.

“That’s one angry dragon,” Tormund warned, “Dragonfire? May not be like the fire you worship.”

Melisandre smiled.

“No, it may not,” she said, “I don’t need to look into the flames. I know my purpose now.”

She stepped beside the body, to Tormund’s surprise, the dragon calmly allowed it. Once more she knelt down and gently ran her fingers through the curly hair.

“Tormund,” she called out, “Help him.”

“He needs no helping,” Tormund said lowly.

“He doesn’t need your helping now,” Melisandre said, “But later, he will. To bring down the walls, when he’s ready.”

Tormund raised an eyebrow. She said she cannot bring him back. He didn’t understand.

“Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson.”

She whispered softly as Tormund watched. She leaned down, allowing herself a little smile. Recalling the memory when she believed in a different purpose, she wanted this, and much more than this, for a wholly different purpose. How ironic. She gently took the face into her palms. It took a long time, for her to get here, a very long time, longer than any of them could even imagine. But she was here, she arrived, she knew now. This was the moment, her purpose fulfilled, everything to this moment was nothing more but the journey here.

Her lips brushed Jon’s, as she exhaled, one last time.


	77. The Iron Throne II.

 

The dragon shriek startled Humfrey, it was so loud, so forceful. It startled Thoyne as well, his eyes began to look to the north, watching as a dragon spread its wings in the distance beyond the crowds, shrieking into the sky, like a victorious battlecry.

It was what Humfrey needed, he attacked. Swinging to the side, Thoyne realised too late what was coming as Vigilance reached him, he could merely turn to minimise impact. The result was a deep slash on his arm, as Humfrey drove home the attack he also kicked him to the ground. It would’ve been fatal had he not turned at the last moment.

“It’s not my swordarm, pretty boy,” he hissed, “What a mistake.”

“I told you,” Humfrey allowed himself a slight grin, “You won’t have need of two swords. Soon you’ll have need of no swords at all.”

“You’re a coward, boy,” Thoyne hissed, crawling to his feet, watching the tip of Vigilance pointing at him. “You don’t fight.”

“I don’t fight like you,” Humfrey said, “Why should I trouble myself? You do all the work for me. You’re really not near as good as you think yourself to be.”

“We shall see, pretty boy,” Thoyne hissed, raising Blackfyre once more, “We shall see!”

*****

“It’s us,” Arya whispered, watching as the shadow of the sword lowered, before she stepped into the small clearing hidden behind the rocks.

“You should be more careful,” she told Brienne with a grin, “I could see the shadow of your sword. I knew exactly where you were.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow before letting it slide with a chuckle. The girl knew much more she’s let on, she learned that a long time ago.

“What’s happening,” Jaime Lannister asked then.

“A lot of interesting things,” Arya shrugged. “Blue caped soldiers are standing in formation, facing the battlefield, around ten thousand of them. Daenerys is guarded by some of them, she looks dead though.”

“None would guard a dead body,” Brienne remarked.

“Not unless they fear it rising,” Jaime remarked.

“Or it’s not dead,” Arya added, “I said, she looks dead. She’s motionless. It may be someone slapped her finally and knocked her out for all I know. There’s more.”

“Your brother is a prisoner,” Clegane stepped in.

“What?”

“Yes, he is,” Arya nodded, “His wrists are tied with rope. He’s standing with Varys and the Hand of your Queen, and Lord Redwyne of the Arbor, judging by the sigils. I presume the ten thousand are his.”

Jaime nodded, “We saw him arrive, then stand down from the fight. He didn’t come to fight dead men.”

“No, he came to fight Targaryens,” Arya said, “Looks like it.”

“Lord Varys is the traitor, he has to be,” Brienne remarked, “With Lord Tyrion a prisoner, and Varys not…”

Jaime nodded once more, “And Qyburn was in on it, that’s why the catacombs were lit, he prepared for his escape from the Red Keep. Varys, Qyburn and Redwyne.”

He sighed.

“Neither of them could claim the Iron Throne,” he said, “Neither could amass the following required. Someone else is in the game. Smart plot, with Qyburn they orchestrate Cersei’s demise, then remove the Targaryens after the battle.”

“Anyone who threatens Jon,” Arya hissed, “Let’s just say, my list has plenty of space for new names.”

*****

The first notion of life that hit him was the stench of smoke, smelling of burned bodies and wood and plaster and the like, mixed with the acute stench of blood. Smells of a battlefield, carried by a mild winter breeze.

Jon opened his eyes, for a moment taking in the steady clouds on the sky.

He was dead. HE was dead, he had to be, for the stormclouds to have cleared, the winds to have calmed, the screams to have died out.

He sat up. The awareness that hit him, the energy burning inside was nothing like the previous times. There was no dizziness, no weakness in this awakening. There was only an empty sense of being, as he looked around at the stunned men, men of the Fiery Hand and the freefolk. His eyes turned to the body beside him.

Melisandre. He reached to touch, but he didn’t need confirmation that she was dead. She brought him back, he knew. There was something odd about her. The beautiful fiery hair was all mottled, turning to white. He brushed it aside from the face, only to see wrinkles taking over the smooth skin. He understood now why he felt a thousand-year-old, looking on as her dead body went through the transformation that would take decades for a living body. He watched it mesmerised by it, until a soft click shook him from the scene. Her necklace fell off her wrinkled neck. By then, she looked more like Gran Umber than herself.

He stood, again surprised at the ease with which he managed to almost jump on his feet. The Fiery Hand knelt at once.

“Fucking kneeling,” Jon hissed, as his eyes turned to Tormund, making his way through the lines of kneeling men. This time, they didn’t oppose.

“You killed the fucker,” Tormund said, as he gave Jon one of those hugs only he could give, as if attempting to squeeze the life he just gained out of him.

“Aye,” Jon smirked as Tormund parted from him, “And he killed me, I can tell.”

“She tried her funny words to bring you back,” Tormund nodded toward the body. “Gods she looks a hundred years old now.”

“A few hundreds,” Jon whispered, “Or a thousand.”

“He kissed you,” Tormund said, eyes wide, “Then she fell dead.”

“The kiss of life,” Jon whispered, turning away from him, “Seems I am just as good at killing priestesses as I am at killing dead men, they only need to kiss me.”

Tormund laughed aloud at that, but Jon already stepped aside, began to walk toward Rhaegal, stretching its wings.

“I have to go,” He said calmly, as he climbed atop the dragon. “Did she say anything before she kissed me?”

Tormund grinned, “She did. She told me to help you, when you’re ready to break down the walls.”

Jon nodded, as his gaze turned toward the city. “No one comes north, Tormund, anyone attempts, you catch them or kill them.”

To his surprise, the Fiery Hand stood at the command just as well as the freefolk. As Rhaegal rose, he could see them all mounting their horses, the fires diminishing as they picked up their spears from the ground. He circled to see them lining up, cutting the way north.

*****

He circled around higher, turning toward the city. It burned, he couldn’t see a single building or tower intact. Bells were fallen, there was no sound from the city now besides the structures collapsing at random.

To the west, he saw a battlefield – a field of carnage. Dead men, countless rotting corpses laid there, long lines of fires burning. That was Rhaegal’s doing, Jon knew. He smiled, feeling the warmth of the dragon’s agreement in response. There were a few white tents, and thousands of armoured men in white capes.

Turning toward the north once more, the capes changed to red, armoured men, more and more standing – in the distance he could already see the scene. The company lined a clearing to its western side, while the mismatched army of the North lined its northern side, along with dead bears, shadowcats, and even wolves. What interested him was the eastern side.

A fresh army, blue capes, grape on sigil – House Redwyne.

Rhaegal circled down, and Jon leaned close to the dragon, as if wanting to be unseen. But he saw. He clearly saw Lord Redwyne, a maester looking man with no chains, and at a little distance, Varys and Tyrion Lannister. Beyond them, more blue caped men guarding Daenerys, who laid still. Fury rose in Jon, as he turned toward the clearing.

He wanted to laugh aloud. Of all places, this is where Thoyne brought his sword.

It was clear the two men were fighting a single combat. Now they merely stood, watching the dragon that interrupted them. One was white caped, in fine armour, young and tall. The other was Myles Thoyne, still wearing his black cape.

Like light and darkness itself, Jon thought at the sight of them, just as Rhaegal’s feet hit the ground.

*****

Tyrion couldn’t not grin widely at the sight. He couldn’t see if the dragon had a rider, but he didn’t need to, really. It flew calmly, circled around silently, before it landed. He wanted to jump for joy, and he certainly would’ve if not for the rope that held his wrists, keenly reminding him that all was not so well just yet.

He wondered if he should call out for Jon, but then he saw in the corner of his eye Varys turning to walk away. He turned after the Spider instead.

“What about this eventuality,” he asked, “You are prepared for every eventuality you said.”

Varys only shot him an angry look.

“Didn’t think so,” Tyrion grinned.

But he didn’t think of what was coming, either. Varys pulled a dagger, straight at his throat, and began to drag him away, right past Daenerys’ body, still guarded by the soldiers.

*****

He looked bloody, dirty, scruffy, but by the gods, he looked every bit a king in Humfrey’s eyes, as Jon walked off the wing of the dragon as if merely taking a few steps. A victorious conqueror, Humfrey thought, as men of the company and of the north began to cheer Jon, louder every moment. He wondered if anyone told him of the sight, would he believe it?

“You were dead, dragonboy,” Thoyne called out, disturbing the perfect image.

“Aye, a few times I’ve been dead, Myles Thoyne,” Jon grinned. Humfrey raised an eyebrow – but then he realised. Thoyne must’ve taken Jon’s sword. It all came together just now – the story of Jon taken by men in black capes at the Gods Eye, Thoyne emerging with Blackfyre, a missing sergeant of the Company since they turned to follow Jon. How clear it was, Humfrey wondered why he didn’t add it together sooner. Moreover, Redwyne was in a pact with Thoyne, they wanted the fighting force the company meant – together they could’ve easily defeated Hightower. And likely everyone else, as well.

“You’re a fool, Myles Thoyne,” Jon said as he stopped near them, “To think that wolves would ever harm me. I am the White Wolf, Myles Thoyne, have you not heard? I was the White Wolf following you and your men while you bickered over my sword, I was the wolf watching you. You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, Myles Thoyne.”

“Yes, I should’ve,” Thoyne hissed, “And I shall once I finish pretty boy here. Stand in line, dragonboy, if you want the sword. Pretty boy here was first.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “Not even death could kill me, Myles Thoyne,” he said softly, “You’re just a man.”

He turned to Humfrey, “What’s going on here?”

Suddenly Humfrey realised. He fell on one knee, bowing his head, laying Vigilance in front of him on the ground. But as he looked up, all he saw on Jon’s face was the raised eyebrows of what he perceived as impatient amusement.

“Myles Thoyne called on the company, your grace,” Humfrey rushed the words, “He demanded they accept him as their new leader, for the company follows the man who wields the sword. Griff wanted to challenge him, but Griff got wounded fighting the dead, so I volunteered to be his champion.”

Jon nodded, his hand motioning to him to rise.

“You are not of the company,” Jon said, “No, you are a Hightower, I presume?”

“Humfrey Hightower, your grace,” Humfrey smiled, wondering how Jon could have known, “Youngest son of Lord Leyton Hightower, your grace.”

“And your father consents to your fighting here,” Jon asked.

“He would not, your grace,” Humfrey grinned, “But he’s passed not two moons ago. My brother Lord Baelor… well I presume he wouldn’t either. Your grace.”

Jon chuckled, causing Humfrey’s eyes to widen in surprise. He found himself admiring the man, wondering why he admired him. Was it the dragon? Or how he looked like he’s fought off an army of dead men on his own? Or knowing what he surely must’ve done, for all of them dead to fall?

He watched as Jon studied him, as his face turned once more serious studying Thoyne. Humfrey was certain, Jon will break up the fight. But how? He just realised, the king – as he thought of Jon – had no sword on him. No, Thoyne had his sword.

“I wanted to get your sword back for when you arrive, your grace,” he said, and Jon chuckled once more.

“Get on with it, then,” he said, but his voice was kind, kinder than Humfrey thought kings to be. Not that he ever spoke to kings before, or even saw one. He saw a man once, he claimed to be a prince – of Tyrosh? Something like it. That man was old and looked more like a clown to Humfrey. Jon Targaryen looked regal, even when covered in blood and dirt, curly long hair loose around his face, he looked regal and fearsome.

Jon stepped back, turned and walked back toward the dragon. Humfrey watched as the dragon wrapped a wing around him, laying its head beside him. Telling everyone who they’ll have to deal with if they come near the king, Humfrey thought.

No wonder Aegon conquered the Seven Kingdoms, he concluded, turning to Thoyne.

Thoyne was a changed man, to be honest. He didn’t shout insults, didn’t shout anything. He kept glancing to the side, toward Redwyne. Humfrey wanted to tell him, don’t expect aid from Redwyne – Redwyne is a coward, big words and nothing behind them, Lord Redwyne won’t stand and risk his status for an outcast in front of the king.

Just then it came to him. Jon wasn’t king. He resigned it in favour of his aunt. Did that matter? Not really, he found.

“You don’t seem too eager now,” he remarked toward Thoyne, just as Thoyne glanced at the dragon. “You know what it will do to you? Even if you win, do you know what that dragon will do to you?”

Instead of response, Thoyne’s eyes once more wandered off to his left, toward Redwyne. Humfrey looked as well. It was only Redwyne standing now with the maester-looking man, he realised. The Imp – or the dwarf he perceived to be the Imp of Lannister – and the long robed bald man were gone.

Thoyne dropped Blackfyre at Humfrey’s feet.

“You surrender then?” Humfrey asked. Thoyne just nodded.

“Men don’t surrender on their feet,” Humfrey hissed, “Kneel.”

Thoyne didn’t need much convincing, he went down on his knees obediently. Humfrey turned to Jon, taking a few steps back, away from Blackfyre on the ground. Jon was already walking closer, behind him, the dragon shuffled, nearing.

“Shame,” Jon said, picking up Blackfyre, “You could’ve died fighting. Instead you die a coward.”

He doesn’t mince his words, Jon Targaryen, Humfrey thought as he watched Jon raising Blackfyre.

“Myles Thoyne,” he said, “You betrayed your oath to the company, you betrayed your oath to this sword. You conspired to overthrow…”

“Wait,” Thoyne called out, “I can tell you! I can tell you who it was. I tell you everything!”

“I know you would,” Jon said, his face stern, his voice cold. “Tell me you were part of Varys’ plot, thank you Myles Thoyne. There is nothing you can tell me that I would be interested to hear. But I thank you for your confession.”

“Send me to the wall then,” Thoyne hissed, “Isn’t that what you Westerosi do?”

Jon’s face turned to furious, but he didn’t answer. Humfrey watched as Jon swallowed, no doubt swallowing whatever response he would’ve given, standing straight, nothing but despise in his eyes fixed firmly on the kneeling man in front of him. And the dragon came even nearer, lowered its face just above the king, and it was angry, so angry, growling almost.

“Myles Thoyne,” Jon raised his voice for all to hear, “I find you guilty of treason. On behalf of Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, I, Jon Targaryen sentence you to die.”

He said it so calmly, Humfrey wondered, as he watched the dragon open its mouth. Suddenly all the men around them silenced, no doubt holding their breath just like Humfrey did, watching the fireball forming in the dragon’s throat. Inadvertently he took a few more steps back. He dreaded the dragon, he dreaded what he saw unfold.

But what unfolded was not what he expected.

Jon lifted Blackfyre, in an instant he swung it and beheaded the kneeling man. Rhaegal raised its head high, breathing fire into the sky instead, as Jon stepped closer to the headless body, taking back his swordbelt before he wiped the sword on the body.

He must’ve had his jaw dropped once more, because Jon smirked as he turned toward him.

“It’s my swordbelt,” he said.

Humfrey fell on his knees once more, he couldn’t have told why, it felt the only thing to do.

“Gods,” Jon laughed, “All this fucking kneeling. Get on your feet, Humfrey Hightower, stop dropping on your fucking knees. I am not a king.”

“I know that,” Humfrey said hesitantly, “I mean…”

But Jon already turned from him. He turned as well, to watch as every man around them fell on their knees.

“It’s hopeless, I guess,” Jon said with a sigh. “They just fucking like kneeling.”

“It’s a sign of respect,” Humfrey said.

“No, it isn’t,” Jon countered, “Men kneel and swear fealty then promise a dagger to your throat. Men kneel and betray, lie, do their damnest to kill you. Kneeling means nothing. What they do after kneeling is what matters, kneeling is a waste of time.”

Wise words, Humfrey thought. Jon Targaryen was a wise man, and a straight one. Yes, he affirmed to himself, he likes Jon Targaryen. Let’s hope Jon Targaryen will like Hightower.

“Where’s Griff,” Jon called out.

“Your grace,” Humfrey whispered, “If I may make a suggestion, to arrest Lord Redwyne there…”

“Why,” Jon shrugged, “Will ten thousand run and hide? Redwyne won’t go anywhere. Where would he run? No, Redwyne and everyone else knows that it’s over. There’s no place to hide from me, not anymore.”

He turned away from Humfrey, rushing toward Griff. He watched as Griff hugged the king – still referring to Jon as King, still not caring that he was not – wondering about his words.

*****

“Fuck Griff,” Jon laughed, “Why aren’t you with a maester?”

“I found them missing sergeants,” Griff said instead.

“Aye, you did,” Jon parted from him, but realised the man couldn’t stand on his own anymore. Perhaps he stood here all along waiting what will unfold, and now that matters concluded, there was no strength in him anymore.

Jon slowly helped him lay on the ground. “Get a maester here, now!” he ordered, and men rushed away, no doubt searching for a maester they could drag to the scene.

“What happened here, Griff,” he asked then as he knelt beside Griff lying on the ground.

“I have no clue,” Griff said. “The Imp was negotiating with the city; they opened the gates. The unsullied and the Dothraki went to the city, then it all blew up. Then the dead came, I was at Hightower’s camp, they caught a raven that the dead come from the west. So we prepared as we could, and we fought them. But then they were coming from the north, so Edric fought them there. I think your aunt is dead, the black dragon cried quite a while.”

Jon looked up, toward the city, his face was cold, furious, but he said nothing.

“Arrest Redwyne, Jon,” Griff said.

“You all seem to be very keen on arresting Redwyne,” Jon noted with a slight grin forced on his face.

“For the sake of the Queen’s intended,” Griff said.

“Sansa’s? Who?”

The maester came just then, kneeling beside Griff, brushing Jon aside and he stood.

“The Hightower boy,” Griff said, “Humfrey his name is. Fought Thoyne for you, for her, I think.”

The maester waved at the men, and they lifted Griff’s body, carrying him away through the crowd, men parting to give way. Jon just turned and watched Humfrey Hightower in the distance, watching him. He turned away.

“You,” he nodded toward some of the men, “Find Lord Redwyne in that camp, put him in chains.”

They didn’t need to look much. Rhaegal already moved, taking the few steps toward Redwyne as he shrieked, before he leaned down, right in front of the Lord of the Arbor, by now shaking as a leaf in the wind.

Men were standing at the ready behind him, spears in hand.

Jon leisurely walked across to get near, watching the standoff. They were all shaking, he chuckled at the sight. He and Rhaegal can do great things together, he concluded.

“Lord Redwyne,” he said calmly, “I hear you are a traitor.”

“I serve Daenerys Targaryen,” Redwyne puffed, more to portray bravery, Jon knew. It was way too hollow to be believable.

“Do you now,” Jon asked, “We shall find out soon enough. Until then, you shall await in the security the company provides, I am afraid.”

“You cannot arrest me, bastard,” Redwyne hissed.

Jon chuckled at it. He glanced at the men behind Redwyne.

“Hand over your Lord,” he said softly, “Or burn. Your choice, step aside and I’ll see to the truth of this; or burn with him and spare me the trouble. I won’t mind it at the least.”

Redwyne looked at him shocked. But a moment later, all the men began to step back, lowering their spears. The men Jon instructed earlier needed only to step in and lead away the shocked Lord Redwyne.

*****

“Ssshhh,” Arya put her finger in front of her mouth, just as Jaime Lannister was about to try and reason with her once more. Jaime wanted her to free Tyrion Lannister. He would’ve gone and tried himself, if his broken leg allowed it, and even though it didn’t, at one point he even tried, only to fall. He couldn’t stand on his own feet, and Arya wasn’t about to risk their safety for an uncertain – or more like, a certainly futile - mission.

Now they could all hear it. Commotion.

Not only commotion, Tyrion Lannister’s voice. Arya raised an eyebrow toward Jaime Lannister, as if saying, ‘you were saying?’

Quiet like a shadow, she got on her feet. Clegane did his best to mimic her quietness, still she waved for him to stay back, before she stepped out.

“And what in Seven Hells would we do with a dingy,” she could hear Tyrion, “By the Gods, see reason! There’s no way out of this. Admit it, Varys, you failed, your plot failed.”

“You never shut your mouth,” Varys said calmly, “That is your problem, that was always your problem.”

“I am a talker, it is true,” Tyrion nodded, “I probably could even talk you out of all the trouble you’ve caused. Our Queen has a forgiving nature…”

“Does her nephew have a forgiving nature?” Varys asked, “Did he act out of forgiveness when he toyed with Euron Greyjoy? Shut up and get in the boat.”

“I cannot climb into a boat with my hands tied, you fool,” Tyrion hissed.

“I am afraid you will just have to,” Varys said calmly, with a smirk.

The scene must’ve looked quite comedic, Tyrion thought. Varys leaned down, trying to lift him into the boat, after hooking his tied hands across its side. Tyrion kept kicking him off. At the odd occasion that Varys got a grip, he couldn’t even lift him, and the closeness, Varys’ head in effect leaning to his backside, only allowed him to kick that much harder.

“Get into the boat,” Varys hissed.

“I won’t,” Tyrion shook his head, “I can’t, as I explained, but I could talk to Jon you know, I could perhaps explain to him that you were protecting our Queen, if you want my help...”

“And why would Jon Targaryen listen to you,” Varys asked as he leaned once more to try and lift Tyrion across the boat side.

“He wouldn’t.”

They both turned toward the source of the voice, Arya Stark standing behind them. “He will listen to me though.”

“Yes, yes!” Tyrion nodded, “See, you still have some friends Varys, I don’t mean to get into the boat. I’ve not yet tired of being back in Westeros, so let’s go and talk to Jon instead.”

“I agree,” Arya smiled, drawing Needle, pointing it straight at Varys. “I am sure you have quite a story to tell, I am eager to hear it.”

Varys stood straight then, merely glancing at Needle. “Valar morghūlis.”

He searched in his pocket, before he handed Arya a coin. Arya raised an eyebrow, before she burst into loud laughter. At that, Varys raised his eyebrow as well.

“Has the custom changed,” he asked, “You of all should know what that means.”

“Do I look like a Braavosi,” she asked amidst her laughter.

“No, you are one of THEM,” Varys argued.

“One of whom,” Tyrion asked with feigned curiosity.

“They have no names,” Arya said, as her laughter calmed, “Do I have no name? I am Arya Stark of Winterfell. Throw your coin at someone else, Spider, you won’t buy favour from me.”

Varys’ face spoke clearly of what he thought of that. Suddenly he turned and began walking into the water.

“And what will you do,” Tyrion called after him, “Are you going to swim to Braavos?” Or is it Pentos?”

“Sandor,” Arya called out, and the Hound stepped forward.

“It’s not fire,” Arya shrugged seeing the Hound’s face, full of despise.

“No, it’s fucking water,” Clegane hissed as he began to march into the water. He grabbed Varys by the neck of his robe, but still, he wasn’t willing. As Clegane pulled, Varys fell on his backside in the water. He turned then, putting his face into the water, trying hard to loosen the robe around him so he could stay underwater.

“Would you rather drown,” Clegane asked.

“This is just despicable,” Arya sighed annoyed.

“It’s pitiful,” Tyrion added, nodding, as he raised his tied hands toward Arya. She raised her eyebrow, but still, after a moment, Needle cut through the rope with ease.

Just then, The Hound finally managed to drag Varys out of the water, dumping the now completely defeated men in front of them.

Arya called for Brienne, and soon all of them were on the beach, Tyrion and Jaime hugging each other, laughing.

“That’s enough brotherly love,” Arya remarked, “You’re breaking Sandor’s heart.”

At that even Brienne had to smile. But Tyrion duly released his brother. “What happened to you all?” He asked.

“It’s not important,” Arya declared, “You sister is dead, twice over, what’s going on out there? Did anyone find Jon?”

“I don’t think he needed finding,” Tyrion grinned, “I think he found his way back without anyone finding him. He’s out there, that’s what made Varys finally flee.” He glanced around Varys, “ I’m surprised you didn’t try to flee sooner, with the Hightower boy and that talk of twenty thousand troops… I mean, it was obvious, that clown in the black cape wasn’t going to win over the Hightower boy.”

“What are you talking about,” Arya hissed.

“Black capes, who took Jon?” Tyrion glanced over Arya, “Turns out they worked for our friend here. I still can’t figure the depth and length of the plot he hatched, but it’s safe to say it’s failed. Jon escaped them somehow, his sword and horn was brought back by one of them. The fool presumed Jon was killed by his direwolves, and Varys believed it. They also believed Qyburn can stop the dead, but I believe that was Jon, after he returned. I believe he died doing it, and came back. Like he does, you know. Gods, I sound crazy.”

“No, not at all,” Brienne said lowly, shaking her head. Tyrion gave her a thankful smile.

“So this man, Myles Thoyne, he was of the company, as much as I could make out from all the boasting out there,” Tyrion continued.

“The missing sergeants,” Jaime chuckled. At that, Varys looked up at him. He didn’t need to say a word, he only needed to give that look to confirm that Jaime was right. “The missing sergeants promised Jon to Cersei, with the Queens.”

“I bet that was Qyburn’s doing,” Tyrion remarked, with Jaime nodding in agreement. “They also have Paxter Redwyne involved somehow. Redwyne came to the Queen, asking for the Lordship Paramount, in return of his support, because he’s feuding with Hightower over the Tarlys’ betrayal of Lady Olenna.”

“Hightower is here,” Jaime declared.

“Oh, we know that,” Tyrion grinned, “Humfrey Hightower stepped out to fight Varys’ black caped champion to retain the leadership of the company in Connington’s hands.”

“No, I mean Hightower is here,” Jaime said again, “A whole fucking army, twenty thousand at the least, though they fought the dead to the west with the company.”

Tyrion had to laugh, glancing at Varys, raising his hands in a “See, I told you” manner – even though he knew he decided not to tell Varys.

“Why is a Hightower fighting for Griff,” Jaime asked with worry in his eyes.

“He didn’t seem doing well,” Tyrion said lowly, “He came to the scene leaning on the Hightower boy, he didn’t escape the dead unscathed I’d say.”

“You said Jon returned,” Arya interrupted their conversation.

“Like a fucking king,” Tyrion grinned, “No, like Aegon the Conqueror reborn. He arrived on the back of his dragon, the dragon went north, picked him up and brought him to the fight. He may have broken it up or something, the men kept cheering. And that, is when our friend here finally decided that his presence is no longer required on the scene. Unfortunately for him, he decided the same for me. I didn’t agree, you heard my desperate pleas, and here we are.”

“I want to see Jon,” Arya stood then.

“As do we all,” Tyrion added, “We all need to go and see Jon. Get Redwyne and Varys in chains, and Qyburn too, before they try something. Before Daenerys wakes.”

“So, she’s not dead,” Arya remarked, glancing at Brienne in understanding of her earlier words.

“No, she’s not,” Tyrion remarked suspiciously, “Varys gave her a kind of potion, perhaps the same as Jon and Edric got a taste of at the Gods Eye. At least Varys believes that she’ll wake soon. This little plot was to conclude by then, and no doubt included Jon’s complete removal.”

“No doubt,” Arya hissed. For a moment she stepped in front of Varys, “Valar morghūlis. Congratulations, you just made my list.”

“I would suggest allowing the Queen to decide what to do with traitors,” Tyrion raised his hand between them as he tried to sooth Arya’s swiftly and visibly rising temper.

“Or Jon,” Arya hissed, “I say he’s Jon’s. He conspired to abduct Jon, and who knows what else. To remove him, as Lord Tyrion says.”

“That’s beheading,” Jaime remarked.

“If Jon doesn’t pass him on to the Queen,” Tyrion argued, “After all he poisoned the Queen.”

“Then it’s fucking dragonfire,” Clegane hissed.

Varys just listened. His face turning more and more sour at every word.

“I see you haven’t prepared for either eventualities,” Tyrion whispered as he leaned close to Varys. After that, they all began to slowly follow Arya, out their hiding place and straight toward the Redwyne forces.

*****

They didn’t need to look for Jon. He stood right where the Arbor men used to guard Daenerys’ body, albeit the men were by now replaced by those of the company. Even Blackfyre was back at its rightful place – hanging off Jon’s swordbelt on his waist once more.

“She’s merely asleep,” Varys called ahead.

Jon looked up, his eyes full of hatred, so much so that he even dismissed Arya’s presence.

“Aye,” he hissed, “And who’s put her under? Who gave her the poison that almost killed me?!”

Varys didn’t respond. He could see behind Jon, near the body of the Queen, Company men were guarding Lord Redwyne and Qyburn. Tyrion saw as well, smiling, nodding in acknowledgement, even praise.

“I see you figured what we figured,” he said, “Your grace.”

“Varys was our traitor all along,” Jon said coldly, “I figured that a long time ago. Qyburn was brought into the plot to control Cersei, or hold her back perhaps, Thoyne and his cronies were brought in to remove me and turn the company. Hells, they even managed to remove Dany’s armies, knowing well they couldn’t have carried this out, Grey Worm was loyal. The Dothraki would’ve never followed a eunuch either. All they needed is convince Cersei to open the gates. And what’s better than to make Dany believe I am there, Cersei abducted me?! She’ll demand surrender, and my return. And you,” he looked at Tyrion, “You’re an idiot, for not seeing it for what it was. They would’ve replaced the armies lost with the Company, now following the Spider’s commands. I’m not finished with Redwyne yet, but I’m sure I have the jist of it figured out.”

“Cersei is dead,” Arya declared nonchalantly, “Ser Jaime killed her.”

“Lady Arya killed her the second time though,” Brienne added, as Tyrion turned to Jaime with a respectful nod they exchanged.

“The fuck you were doing in a burning city,” Jon hissed at Arya then, “Sansa should’ve never let you.”

“She didn’t,” Arya shrugged, “But she left for the Hightower camp to treat with their Lord, so I told Edric and Griff I’m leaving. The dead were coming, Jon! We needed you!”

“You all thought me in the city,” Jon remarked, much calmer.

“We did,” Tyrion nodded, “I called it hope. Really, the other option was unimaginable, thinking you dead.”

“I was not dead,” Jon whispered, “Though, in a way I was.”

“But you’re here now,” Arya smiled, and finally, Jon opened his arms. She ran into the hug.

“You’re bloody,” she said, as she felt it on her face.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon whispered, wiping the blood marks from her cheek, “None of it matters now. We need to find Sansa, and protect Dany until she wakes.”

She opened her mouth, but decided to say nothing, before she added, “You killed him, didn’t you,” she asked, “You killed the Night King.”

“We killed each other,” Jon smiled a sorrowful smile, “He just didn’t have fire worshippers to kiss life into him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may be "slightly uncharacteristic" but I wanted Varys to become a cowering laughable mess - Based on previous comments I thought you won't mind 😉
> 
> THIS IS IMPORTANT -  
> For 77 chapters I prepared on leaving the throne empty, I said it in multiple times in comments before.
> 
> Lately I’m feeling like both Jon and Dany changed enough that they could sit on the throne - they aren’t near perfect but they have it in them now.  
> Based on the story, if there’s a ruler in the end who would you pick? DANY / JON?  
> Please vote in the comments.
> 
> Ps - no it can’t be both, so please don’t vote for that... it’s not a fairytale ;)


	78. The Iron Throne III.

 

Two days have passed. Jon didn’t get much sleep, not that he felt the need for it. He felt as if he had energy for three of himself at the least, way too much energy for sitting around doing nothing, but waiting.

Waiting is what they all did. Jon refused to allow a single man – or woman – leave the camp. He spent most of the time taking accounts of who were there, who were lost… who were dead.

Redwyne’s ten thousand naturally were all accounted for. The cowards allowed others to fight for their living, Jon despised that. He despised that no one spoke against that order, or acted in defiance of it, they all stood and watched as the city burned, as armies beside them fought the dead. Jon couldn’t reconcile himself with that. Late in the night, when he finished walking the camps, and finally settled on the camp bed erected beside Dany – so he could keep watch over her, he told himself – he toyed with the idea of lining them all up and having Rhaegal burn them all for their treachery.

He found that Edric had about half of his force left. Edric himself had a slash across his chest, besides half a dozen wolf bites, he almost bled out, Jon learned. He was barely at his senses, troubled by nightmares no doubt, dreams that Jon knew well, and when he came to, he could barely speak, he seemed even unable to recognise Jon, or stay awake long enough to do so. About five hundred of the direwolves were accounted for, give or take a few. Ghost has since returned to them with Silver, Jon hasn’t seen the wolf since. He didn’t mind. Ghost needed company of his own, he reminded himself. No matter how alone he felt.

Jon felt alone. All these people looked at him as if he was some kind of God – the man who defeated Death itself, and all the dead fell. He knew the story went around in the camps, not in the least because not only Tormund, but all the freefolk had big mouths, and they used it, spreading the story, exaggerating it, and as it passed from man to man it became even more exaggerated, to barely resembling the truth. By the time it reached someone who’d tell Jon, there was nothing about him being thrown around like a sack of grain for most of that fight.

His death was included however, in great detail. He died, in every version of the story he died, his last act gripping the stone-cold glass heart out of the chest of the Night King. It sounded somewhat romantic even, as part of the story. It sounded as if it was about someone else. It suffocated Jon.

The day before he went around further, learned the northmen lost half theirs, there wasn’t even a thousand Knights of the Vale in Sansa’s army now. Gods, there used to be five thousand of them, before the war, led by Bronze Yohn Royce.

Jon took account of the lost that he knew, Royce, Edd, Jorah Mormont, Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr – not looking as much a fanatic as they used to in Jon’s eyes – and of course, Bran. He found that he couldn’t recall all their dead he knew, the many that Reed lost at Greywater Watch, Cerwyn and Glover, who knows who else. Then there were the missing, most importantly, Grey Worm and Missandei.

Dany had a thousand unsullied left – those that guarded her from the start, she kept them back when she ordered the taking of the city. But Grey Worm led the troops through the gates. As for the Dothraki, Jon couldn’t tell – they probably did what they would’ve done in Essos, rode into the city en masse. Jon didn’t know who lead them, after Ser Jorah gone. At the Gods Eye, Jon knew now.

Missandei was a different story – no one knew where she was. She was in camp, until the moment Dany fell to the poison, then she disappeared. No one could tell more than that. Jon had an idea. He recalled the scene he witnessed at Winterfell, he never saw a man and a woman in love like that before.

That is why he sent search parties into the city. Tyrion called him mad for it, the city was burning still, but Jon didn’t care. He asked for volunteers, and there were plenty. Not in Redwyne’s camp there weren’t, those are cowards. But men of the company volunteered, wolves, northmen and men of Hightower volunteered. Jon didn’t bother to mix them, wondering if it was smart.

But what would they do? Fight another battle on the burning streets? What was left to fight for, anyway?

At first, they didn’t venture in deep. But then the rains started, and more and more men volunteered to go into the city. By now, half the camps were empty, men were in the city, searching the ruins. The rains didn’t put out all the fires though, Jon knew, because he ventured into the city as well, to see.

He had to see the destruction, he told himself. He had to see what evil can do, and he saw the green flames burning. He saw the bodies on the streets, burned to crisp. Everything was covered in thick layer of ash, the bodies, the ruins. Bells were on the streets, piles of stones around them where belltowers collapsed. Jon was told that the bells rang, because Tyrion asked for it as sign of surrender. He was also told that Dany scouted the city before she gave the order, and there was nothing amiss.

It was a trick, Tyrion lamented lengthily that he should’ve known, vehemently argued that he protested against the order, he counselled caution, to wait. It was a tragedy, with grave implications.

Jon was no fool, at least he tried to believe that he wasn’t one. He saw what was unfolding. He went to see Varys, not that he learned much from the Spider, merely repeating the same, again and again chanting that he serves Daenerys Targaryen, he only did what was right to get her what she wanted, the Iron Throne.

Instead, he stripped her of her strength. Jon wondered what he’ll do about it, because he could see clearly what it meant. The company was loyal to him only, Tyrion explained in great detail how Griff stood down, even parting his camp from the camps of Dany’s armies, when it became clear that she intends to force the surrender of the city.

Sansa was Queen in the North. The best support anyone of the South could hope for was her keeping out of their affairs. She wasn’t one to keep out of others’ affairs, and now, she had Hightower.

That pained Jon. He went to see Sansa, to see Reed, on the first day. The maester wasn’t certain that Reed would make it, and Reed was given milk of the poppy to put him under. Sansa was factual, albeit glowing happy to see him alive, explaining to him teary eyed that she thought him dead when she heard Rhaegal’s cries above the battlefield. But when it came to Hightower, she was factual – as a Queen should be. She made an alliance, gave her word.

Jon spoke to Baelor Hightower as well. The man was oddly cheerful, though somewhat stunned still by the battle he fought. Utterly respectful toward Jon, Sansa, all of them, often remarking about the war against the dead, how long and hard and gruesome it must’ve been for them. Not once did he ask Jon for the Lordship Paramount during that conversation – Jon only found out when Davos told him.

Davos also told him that Sam would be recognised as his father’s heir in return. That was a good thing, no matter how small it seemed compared to all that went through.

Are the aftermaths of war always so dire? Jon stared at the map with Sansa and Baelor for over an hour, trying to understand, to figure how much they have lost. In his mind, he called it Varys’ sacrifice. Had he not been taken at the Gods Eye; he could’ve ended it there. It would’ve halved their losses, now not only the North, the Neck and the Vale were lost, but also the Riverlands, the Westerlands. When Jon told of it to the Lannister brothers, they both wept like little boys.

He walked the camp slowly, taking it in. A few men were sitting around campfires. Regularly they stood as they caught sight of him, bowed their heads every time, even if they didn’t stand. Thank the Gods they omitted the kneeling. But they offered their blessings.

He ordered on the first day that the camps must be close together. Men began to slowly mingle, talk to men other than their own. Jon thought that a good sign – now they all fought the same enemies, they all have seen. They all learned that petty differences and bickering of lords were worth nothing.

Now he had reason to walk, for once. He set his mind to finally face Paxter Redwyne. He hasn’t finished with Redwyne yet, he told Tyrion two days ago. Since then, he always found something else to do. Now, he was ready.

The guards stepped aside without a word, allowing Jon to enter the tent. Redwyne didn’t stand. He wasn’t bound, Jon didn’t bind prisoners. What was the worth? Causing them discomfort? Their tents were tightly surrounded by men, there wasn’t even need for an order. No matter how they would’ve tried to crawl out of here, they would’ve faced thousands of men out there. There was no escape from the middle of the camps, not with everyone knowing what they did, despising them. Those who didn’t know or care about Daenerys despised them for standing down ten thousand against the dead. Ten thousand could’ve made a difference in the north. No, there was no need to bind Redwyne or any of the others, they were so despised and looked down on, anyone catching a glimpse of them trying to escape would have gladly given them a death more gruesome than the beheading or burning alive by dragonfire that was in store for them.

Redwyne’s face showed signs of his former defiance, albeit by now, he seemed more reflective. He had plenty of time to reflect, for sure.

“I was told,” he said, “You are a friend of the Tarly boy.”

Jon allowed himself a smile, recalling the sight of Sam in the Hightower camp. Sam seemed to have found peace there, or perhaps safety, closure that Jon also yearned for. They didn’t speak, Sam waved at Jon and Jon nodded in return, and that was all.

“He was my brother at the Nights Watch,” Jon said softly, as he took the spare chair, wondering why he didn’t call him friend. Why, because he found himself undeserving, he knew. “He is my friend,” he declared.

“You were Lord Commander, and you left the Nights Watch,” Redwyne remarked, “You broke an oath.”

“I swore my life to the Watch,” Jon said calmly, “I gave my life to the Watch. They killed me.”

“I was told that, too,” Redwyne nodded. “I was told that demon thing that raised the dead killed you as well. And you killed him.”

“You’ve been told a lot, Lord Paxter,” Jon smirked.

“Men like to tell stories,” Redwyne leaned back in his chair, “They liked the stories of old. Age of heroes, Azor Ahai, defeated the Others and the dead fell. I was told you are Azor Ahai reborn.”

“I was told that, too,” Jon sighed, “One of my many names they gave me.”

“How many are there,” Redwyne raised an eyebrow and Jon had to chuckle.

“In truth, I never listed them,” he said, “White Wolf, Son of Ice and Fire, Prince that was Promised, Lightbringer, Azor Ahai reborn… Lord Commander, King in the North, Heir to the Iron Throne. Snow, Targaryen… I bet the list is longer by now than when Missandei introduces Daenerys at a parley.”

“Is it true,” Redwyne asked curiously, “For real, are you the heir?”

“It’s been proven,” Jon smirked, “Though it does seem unbelievable at times.”

“Proven, how?”

“Well,” Jon took a deep breath, “Not that we should be discoursing it, my Lord. I have letters from my father, Rhaegar Targaryen to Aemon Targaryen, maester of the Nights Watch, correspondence of Lord Reed and Ned Stark with maester Aemon. I have my father’s diary, clearly setting out that my mother was with child, that they wed, handwriting confirmed with those letters, and more letters by my father to Jon Connington. And an eyewitness, Howland Reed. He was there when Ned Stark found my mother at the Tower of Joy, when she died, after handing me to my uncle. He testified that Ned vowed to raise me as his bastard – the letters to maester Aemon further confirm that. And… I control a dragon. That’s dragonblood, Lord Paxter.”

Redwyne nodded, lengthily, thinking about it.

“I needed to hear,” he whispered, “I needed to know how big a fool I am before I die.”

“You may not die, Lord Paxter,” Jon said lowly, softly, “We shall find out when the Queen wakes”

“Lord Tyrion told me,” Redwyne remarked, “She has a forgiving nature, he said.”

“Lord Tyrion likes to chant that,” Jon nodded.

“It’s ironic, really,” Redwyne smiled. “I agreed with the burning of the Tarlys, I called it justice served. Yet now, it does not seem justice, now that I face it.”

“Again,” Jon said firmly, “You’ve not been tried yet. We don’t know what your sentence will be.”

“I hear you behead people you find guilty,” Redwyne said instead, “I watched you behead Thoyne. In the name of Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, you said.”

“I sentenced him,” Jon remarked.

“Without a trial?”

“He confessed, right there on the field,” Jon smirked, “as much as an idiot can give a confession, I suppose. He was an idiot.”

“We agree at that,” Redwyne returned the smirk, “but you didn’t burn him.”

“I was raised by Ned Stark,” Jon sighed, “I was thought that the man who passed the sentence should swing the sword. That’s what my uncle used to say, and I lived by his teachings all my life, as much as I could. Seems to me, a dragon burning my enemies is not me swinging the sword.”

Redwyne just nodded, again.

“It doesn’t matter, really,” Jon said, “Sword, fire… death comes for us all Lord Paxter, some of us face it sooner thanks to things we decide to do.”

“It doesn’t come for you,” Redwyne grinned.

“It did, three times even,” Jon countered, “Two and half, at the least. I guess I am fortunate, the fire worshippers like to kiss life into me at the price of their own. We ought to talk about other things.”

“You mean, the plot you aborted,” Redwyne smirked, “Because some red witch kissed life into you, despite Varys’ best hopes.”

“Yea, that,” Jon nodded, “I want to know what you know.”

“And once you learned what I know?”

“We shall see what you know,” Jon said sternly, “I make no promises.”

“The wall isn’t an option I heard,” Redwyne whispered.

“There is no Nights Watch anymore,” Jon was becoming more and more impatient, “Soon the Watch will be officially disbanded by the Queen in the North, and even if not, why would she allow southern traitors and murderers to reside in effect in her Kingdom? No, there’s no wild card of sending you or anyone else to the Wall. Let us get to the point, Lord Paxter.”

“I was contacted by Varys,” Paxter said then. “His little birds, turns out they are everywhere. Even after he was gone from Kings Landing, they were reporting. He contacted me, he knew of my disagreement with Hightower, my displeasure at the mercy shown to the Tarlys. That is my family they betrayed, after all.”

“And you believe yourself to be their heir,” Jon added.

“I am their heir,” Redwyne argued, “Just as you are your father’s heir.”

“The fuck it matters,” Jon hissed. “What matters is, what is good for the people, Lord Paxter. Your feelings, my feelings, our petty differences matter shit. You, my Lord, are responsible for your people, it is your duty to defend them, to defend the Reach. You asked for the Lordship Paramount to decimate the Reach at your will, to further the damage Cersei already caused. I see no difference between you and Randyll Tarly. He was promised what you demanded; you both chose greed over your duty.”

Redwyne listened intently. He didn’t respond, not that there was anything he could’ve said. He took a deep breath, continuing his story instead.

“I agreed to support, in return I get the Lordship Paramount. I asked for more, I was told there’s no way.”

“What have you asked for,” Jon asked.

“What any man with sons would ask for from an unwed Queen, in return for their support,” Redwyne said emotionlessly, “I asked for her to wed one of my sons. I was refused, given the chance. Then Cersei’s call to arms came, and I had to make a decision. Die in the Red Keep when she unleashes her dragons at Cersei, or support her. I already made the decision to support her, the Lannisters murdered my aunt.”

“And Varys arranged this with you,” Jon pointed out, “While he was on Dragonstone.”

“I didn’t know he was on Dragonstone,” Redwyne remarked, “The ravens came from Pentos.”

Jon sat up straight at that. “What else do you know about that, why were you refused.”

“Nothing, I am afraid,” Redwyne said lowly, “I was told there is a suitor, that is all, I know not who it is. I arrived, I met with her, she knew nothing of nothing that was clear, and she didn’t promise me what I asked for. Varys told me to wait, stand down from any fight, do not enter the city, do not fight anything that comes. Told me that in the end it’ll be my army standing. He was right at that, though he didn’t expect Hightower. Hells, I didn’t expect Hightower march out, and also refuse Cersei. Baelor always seemed to be a cunt like his father.”

“He was caught by the dead in the west,” Jon said, “After catching your army marching ahead of him.” He didn’t feel the need to say more, to tell anything about Baelor’s pact with Sansa, or Baelor’s own demands Jon was told of.

Instread, he stood.

“I had time to think,” Redwyne looked up at him, his face sad, defeated. “There’s not much else to do in this tent, after all. Randyll Tarly may have fought beside Jaime Lannister at Highgarden, but it was Cersei’s bidding. It was Cersei Lannister who murdered my family.”

“Get in the line,” Jon said. “Do not think for a moment that you’re alone with that assessment.”

“No, they murdered the Starks,” Redwyne remarked, “Your family. And I heard she’s dead, her brother killed her. I heard she rose from the dead, and your sister… cousin killed her again. What I am saying is, I wanted Daenerys Targaryen to overthrow her. I suppose I could’ve gone about it differently.”

“Yes, you could’ve,” Jon nodded, before he left the tent.

*****

He found Tyrion Lannister waiting outside, impatience on his face.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your interrogation,” Tyrion said

“Have any of the search parties returned,” Jon asked.

“No,” Tyrion shook his head, “It’s the Queen. She screamed, she keeps screaming in fact. I think she’ll wake, but she hasn’t yet. Like having a nightmare.”

“And you didn’t come in to tell me,” Jon hissed, “Get yourself together, Lord Tyrion.”

He turned and ran, for Dany’s tent.

*****

She wasn’t peacefully sleeping anymore. She wasn’t sleeping at all, but she wasn’t screaming anymore either.

Her eyes were open, flickering around the roof of the tent, her face was full of panic.

“I’m here,” Jon whispered, leaning close to her, “It’s all right, I am here.” As if his presence could make anything alright, he reminded himself.

“I had the worst nightmare,” she whispered finally, as she sat up on the camp bed. Suddenly, she raised her face, her eyes meeting Jon’s, flickering away before she pressed them shut, then meeting his gaze again.

“It was no nightmare,” she whispered, her eyes tearing up.

Jon could only shake his head, there were no words to speak. Instead, he pulled her close, allowing her to silently sob in his arms, thankful for Sansa to be the ever so caring, providing him with clean clothing, so he didn’t have to do this in his blood-stained battle clothes.

After a few moments though, she collected herself. When she parted from him, she looked every bit a Queen. Scorned, furious, powerful, regardless of how she much she’s lost.

“Tell me everything,” she said sternly.

“The dead are now truly dead,” Jon said.

“You killed him,” She remarked, her face softening, and Jon nodded.

“There were battles, to the west, and the north. I was in the north,” Jon sighed, “I was never in the city, Dany. It was a rouse…”

He sat beside her on the camp bed, brushing the hair out of her face. “The traitor,” he began.

“Varys or Tyrion,” she scoffed, “Which one did betray me…”

“Varys,” Jon whispered, “He also took Tyrion prisoner as soon as you passed out. The poison was in the water he gave you. He worked with Qyburn, Cersei’s Hand, and they fooled Tyrion with the parleys and the gates opening… Their aim was for your armies to enter the city, to look for me. Then they…”

“Burn them all,” she finished the sentence, as she lowered her head onto Jon’s shoulder, and Jon found himself in need to console her, hold her close.

“I’ve sent search parties into the city,” he whispered, “If anyone survived, we’ll find them.”

“Cersei?”

“Dead, Ser Jaime killed her.” Jon said softly, “Qyburn, Varys and Lord Redwyne are held captive.”

“Redwyne,” she whispered into Jon’s chest, “He came to offer me his support, ten thousand men.”

“He stood them down as soon as you were dealt with,” Jon said, “Though I just came from speaking to him. He would’ve supported you anyways, there was no other choice for him, but Varys cast his web around him and Lord Paxter fell for the rouse.”

“Missandei,” she whimpered.

“No one has seen her since the city exploded,” Jon whispered, “I am sorry, that’s why I sent the search parties despite the fires still burning, I believe she went into the city, to find Grey Worm.”

“That’s foolish,” Dany remarked as she straightened her back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“Love is foolish,” Jon shrugged. “But half the armies are in the city, searching for survivors. If there’s anyone, we’ll find them soon enough. The rain is helping with the fires.”

Dany only nodded.

“What happened to you,” she asked then, looking up at him.

“Varys’ plot happened,” Jon smirked. “Remember the company had two missing sergeants? They deserted to serve Varys. They made a pact with Cersei, the Gods know why, but they wanted to deliver me to her, promised her Sansa and you as well. Though I think that was a rouse to keep her in check. I do think Varys wanted you on the throne, I just don’t think he wanted it on your terms.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s told Redwyne that you have a suitor,” Jon said kindly, “We can be sure that he didn’t consider me a suitor. He meant to marry you off and have a king of his choice. One he can control.”

Dany laughed aloud, a desperate laugh of disbelief, Jon thought.

“I know, it’s a crazy plan,” he whispered.

“How did he intend to control my dragons?!” She asked, “How did he mean for me not to burn all of them?”

“He meant to frame Lord Tyrion,” Jon explained, “In a nutshell, he meant to blame Tyrion, had him arrested already. You would’ve had no one then, with me gone, Tyrion a traitor, only Varys would’ve remained. You would’ve trusted him until it’s too late. Think about it, all he needed was your marriage. Whomever you’d be wed off to doesn’t need you to stay around, what’s your is his by marriage.”

“I want him dead,” she hissed.

“You and everyone else,” Jon shrugged, “But I left it to you, do it as you see fit. Once you’ve rested and recovered. I’d have you rest.”

“I slept for days, Jon,” she protested.

“And are you not feeling tired,” he asked smiling, “I felt tired after it, I felt like I didn’t sleep for a hundred years.” Perhaps that was the dark-haired priestess though, but he didn’t mean to say that out right.

“Stay here, think about what you want,” Jon said, “I’ll send you supper, you must be hungry.”

He stood to leave her. He found the tent suffocating, himself being anything but what she would need now. No, she needs Missandei and Ser Jorah and Grey Worm, she needs her armies and her dragons.

“Am I still Queen,” She asked, merely whispered, as if reading his thoughts.

“Why wouldn’t you be Queen,” he asked as he turned back toward her. “You are Queen. Cersei Lannister is dead, Dany, twice over. She can oppose you no longer.”

You don’t need armies to storm Kings Landing, he wanted to say.

You don’t have armies.

He had to leave. No longer because he felt pressed thin under the weight of the air in the tent, but because he had an idea. She didn’t lose everyone. She still had a nephew, she had him. And he made a promise, trapped in the body of his direwolf, he promised that he won’t accept any more sacrifice for him from anyone, including her, even including circumstances outside his control.

“I beheaded the man who took me,” he said, glancing back at her once more. “In the name of Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Protector of the Realm, mother of dragons… whatever titles I could remember, I sentenced him to die, and I took his head.”

Then he left the tent.

*****

Tyrion Lannister was outside the tent, of course, waiting.

“She’s awake,” he said, “I heard her voice.”

“You leave her be,” Jon hissed, waving a man over. Ordering some of the Venison stew that Hightower had to be brought to the Queen, and wine too and freshly baked bread. Tell Lord Baelor it is for the Queen, Jon instructed. At least there was something good in all these southern armies having joined them so late – they had the supplies. The man left at once.

“Hightower will provide supplies?” Tyrion was not convinced; from the tone of his voice it was clear.

“Hightower will do as I ask,” Jon scoffed, “Everyone fucking do as I ask, or fucking die for all I care. I won’t have childish bickering anymore. Yes, Hightower will provide, do not worry, Lord Tyrion.”

He knew Baelor would – Baelor offered it without asking, after all. It must be a Lannister questioning the goodwill of others, Jon concluded.

“Leave the Queen to rest, Lord Tyrion,” he spoke, trying to calm himself. “She has much to think about, and she has to regain her strength. I don’t want you or anyone else to trouble her. Leave her be.” With that, he turned to leave. Finally, he had somewhere to go.

Tyrion nodded, seemingly accepting his removal from the Queen’s side, temporary or otherwise, without asking. But there was something else he asked instead.

“Is she still Queen,” He asked.

Jon couldn’t believe his ears. What was wrong with these people!

“Oh, so you are looking for better prospects already,” he hissed, turning back toward Tyrion.

“She lost her armies, not in the least thanks to your idiocy,” Jon raised his voice, “She lost her friends, she lost one of her dragons in this war and you would already shop around…”

“That is not what I meant,” Tyrion stood firmly against him. “You should temper yourself, Jon, not everyone’s a fucking traitor.”

“We shall see,” Jon hissed, but inside, he already knew he was wrong. It was on Tyrion’s face. The dwarf was sorry, honestly sorry for all that Jon deemed to be his idiocy.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

“I know,” Tyrion gave him a slight smile, “I don’t blame you. It can’t be easy, I cannot know of course, but it cannot be easy with all of us looking at you like...”

“…Like a fucking God,” Jon hissed, “I am no God.”

“…Like the answer to all our problems, I meant to say,” Tyrion nodded. “I asked if she is your Queen, that is what I meant to ask. Should’ve chosen my words wiser.”

“I never swore fealty to any Queen,” Jon said sternly. “But she is YOUR Queen. I am her nephew; I don’t serve her. You swore to serve her, so serve her. It’s fucking time people start to live by their words.”

“And I intend to,” Tyrion whispered.

“Good.”

“She’ll need you,” Tyrion called after him as Jon turned to leave once more. “She can’t do it without you.”

Jon didn’t respond, but he stopped mid-motion. He found he couldn’t leave. There was more coming, he knew. “To take the Iron Throne, she’ll need your help now.”

“The Iron Throne,” Jon hissed, glancing back. “Kings Landing is a burnt pile of rubble littered with the remains of the innocent, and four kingdoms are lost with them, Lord Tyrion., millions of innocent souls died, millions are devastated.”

“We’ll need to rebuild, that is true,” Tyrion said lowly.

“No, Lord Tyrion,” Jon declared coldly, “We’ll need to survive winter. Put your mind to that, Lord Tyrion, if you want to make yourself useful.”

He turned and left. There was nothing more to talk about, in fact, all that’s been said was not worth talking about. He had somewhere to go, somewhere he could make a change. Words mean nothing, he reminded himself. He made a promise, and even that would mean nothing if he didn’t try his damnest to keep it.

*****

Once more the men parted without a word in front of him. But this tent was different. The skulls no longer ‘graced’ the structure, but still, the cloth of gold was unrecognisable even under layers of dirt.

“You’re up,” he declared, colder than he intended to be, at the sight of Jon Connington sitting on the bed. A bowl of stew in his hand. A horn beside him on the small table.

“I’d be a fool missing this,” he raised the bowl slightly toward Jon. Venison stew, Jon could smell it. It reminded him how hungry he was, he’s not eaten these past two days either. He couldn’t bear the thought of swallowing anything, even the watered wine was a struggle to keep himself hydrated. Or wined water, he amused himself for a moment.

“Baelor Hightower looks after me now,” Griff grinned. “But that,” he nodded toward the horn, “That is ale, brewed by Reed’s folk. I swear Jon, they brew the best ale I ever had. Fuck the Arbor wine, or whatever fine wine Lord Baelor has on offer, if I can have some of that ale instead.”

At that Jon had to laugh aloud. Griff was amusing him now; he didn’t depend on himself anymore to keep his spirit from drowning in his sorrows. At least, for the moment, he didn’t. He hoped Griff will keep amusing him once he said what he had to say.

“You should’ve tried frog’s legs,” Jon grinned slightly, “You’d resist Hightower’s venison as well if you tasted that. They spice them and roast them, and they bake sweet potatoes in butter to go with them.”

Griff stared at him in shock.

“Serious?”

“Dead serious, Griff,” Jon grinned, “Once Reed is back on his feet, ask him to invite you for dinner. He’ll prove to you.”

“I hear he will never be back on his feet,” Griff said lowly.

There was a rumour of that, Jon knew. He refused to believe it. “The Howland Reed I know,” he sighed, “would never give up, never. He’ll recover, I know it.”

“He has to,” Griff glanced at Jon, “For your sake, I can see that.”

Perhaps Griff was right. Jon didn’t ponder on it.

“I have to speak to you, Griff,” he said instead, “Finish that stew, be quick about it. I don’t mean to spoil such a hearty supper.”

“I have to speak to you, as well,” Griff sighed, waving a guard over. Jon only noticed just now that there were two guards in the tent.

“Get Gorys in here, promptly,” Griff hissed. Jon tried to recall where he heard the name but couldn’t.

“You have guards in the tent,” he remarked instead, “Who are you afraid of, Griff?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Griff said, mouth full. Jon grinned at the sight, Griff packing the stew inside him at record speed. Following order, Jon thought to himself. It was funny, indeed.

Once he finished, he’s put down the bowl.

“Who are you afraid of,” Jon asked again, “Thoyne is dead. All them fuckers are dead; I can tell you. They can’t come back from the dead anymore to take revenge on you or anyone else.”

Griff shrugged.

“You, first,” he said lowly, “I mean to hear you out, just to know how big a fuck-up this really is.”

Jon sighed. Something was wrong, really wrong, something he didn’t know about. His mind wanted to race away searching for clues, to figure it out, but he calmed himself. He came with a purpose.

“You told me once, you swore your life to my father and his brood,” he said. “I mean to give you an order, Griff, and you won’t like it.”

“You mean to order me to swear that I’ll do the same for your aunt,” Griff said, without a moment of hesitation. It surprised Jon.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Griff added with a slight smile, “It’s fucking obvious Jon. She’s lost her armies, she has what, a thousand Unsullied left? And a single dragon.”

“Two dragons,” Jon corrected.

“Whatever,” Griff shrugged, “You don’t want just me to kneel. You want the company to kneel.”

“You all wanted to return to Westeros,” Jon argued, “Those of you who are exiles. The rest of you, I cannot tell. Wasn’t that what you wanted? You ought to fight for the damn place, whatever kind of shithole it is.”

“It’s not the same,” Griff gave Jon an apologetic smile, “Serve Rhaegar and you, his son, and serve the woman who means to take what is rightfully yours.”

“Does it matter,” Jon asked.

“No, it does not,” Griff said, “That is what you want. I swore to serve, not to tell you what you should want. Disobedience is not serving; you give the order and I obey.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Jon said, “But I can’t… How does it go, I cannot ask of you anything that might bring you dishonour?”

“You think serving Daenerys would bring me dishonour?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Jon sighed, “Who knows, maybe you’d see it as dishonour, swearing to her while thinking what you just said.”

Griff sighed. “You are right, Jon. It doesn’t matter.”

“So, you’ll do it,” Jon asked, his voice much more hopeful than he intended to allow it to be. “You’ll swear to Daenerys and support her taking the throne.”

“It’s not like I didn’t fail you before,” Griff said instead of giving him a straight answer. “I didn’t find Thoyne and Lothston in time. I didn’t prevent you being taken.”

“You couldn’t have known about that,” Jon smiled. It was a forgiving smile, but Griff was having none of it, he could tell.

“They were somewhat entertaining to watch, though,” Jon said, raising an eyebrow to go along with his grin, waiting for Griff’s face to betray the mood change he hoped for.

“Go on, tell me all about it,” Griff said, “I can see that you want to.”

“I got trapped in my wolf,” Jon said.

“I didn’t even know you can warg your wolf,” Griff remarked, "Not until you came all tail-wagging and face-licking before the battle.”

“Aye,” Jon grinned, “You ought to wash more often. You tasted like sweat.”

Griff gave him a shocked look, and Jon laughed aloud.

“They took my body into this dingy they had,” he began the tale, “And they sat in it on the lake while the battle settled, shaking from fear like leaves, because the dead don’t swim. I wanted to tear them to pieces with the wolves, Ghost’s pack was there. You should’ve heard them whinging about it.”

Griff chuckled, “I can imagine.”

“I decided against it, I couldn’t figure what I’ll do with the body,” Jon said, “I mean, I couldn’t return to it. I followed them as they took it to the shore, all across the battlefield and beyond. There were no dead in sight. Then they arrived at their camp site, and it became even more interesting.”

“They met up with Lothston. Thoyne took me with a few men, Lothston was to take Sansa. There was a third group, I dealt with that when I was running around awaking you all. Thoyne got all furious while full of himself, waving around with my sword. Then he left with the dingy they had. Lothston then left with some of his men to forage. Then I took the body.”

“But I didn’t leave them, I went to watch them, because I couldn’t awake the body. I was fucking desperate, but then I saw Thoyne brought them two more dinghies. He was joking around how they only needed two, the wolves took care of some of the guards you know. Then once more he went on about how he’s the leader of the company. So Lothston tried to calm him, he should be elected. Thoyne enticed him so they fought. Needless to say how that went, but it turned into something hilarious.”

Jon laughed at the memory, albeit wondering why he omitted Lady Stoneheart. Lady Catelyn, who introduced herself as Stoneheart, and left for the North when Jon and Melisandre decided to ride south, not wanting to show herself to the girls like that. He pushed aside the memory.

“So Lothson is dead, right,” he said, Griff by now completely immersed in the tale, “and the fuckers turn from him, but he rises and takes one down. They all panic, because that one is rising too, and the dead pick out another while the idiots try to light a fire, they only had one Valyrian steel sword after all. In the end they almost killed themselves, out of eight there was only Thoyne and two more left standing.”

Griff laughed, “So typical, the fools!”

“The best was when Thoyne declared, he brought three fucking dinghies. Now they only need one fucking dingy, and they had one fucking dingy to begin with. What a waste of effort!”

They both laughed, lengthily, while a man entered the tent, and behind him, the two guards. Griff’s face turned to sour once more.

“You can leave us for now,” he told the guards. Jon turned around and instantly recognised the man. He saw him once before. He was the paymaster.

“Gorys Edoryen,” Jon said, “I remember now.”

The man handed him a scroll. Jon scanned through it quickly.

“What does this even mean,” he asked, looking up at Griff.

“The company won’t stay in Westeros, Jon,” Griff said. “I told you, it doesn’t matter. If it was me, it would matter, I’d choose your order above my life. But I’m responsible for the others. Fucking traitor Strickland. He and that Mad Queen of his have truly fucked us, that’s what it means.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your votes! and the reasons explained for your votes as well.  
> There was a lot given that made me think.
> 
> I'm still undecided. I was floored how many votes for Jon there were, that's told me that I managed to discard the "your muhhh queen" image and build him up. But Dany also had votes, I feel that she's grown a lot - though the votes were mainly reasoned by how much she lost and not with her growth in the story. She's grown, I think, she's definitely not on the path to madness.
> 
> I'll decide for the next chapter, or the one after it the latest because that's planned to be the last chapter of the 'main story'. Then I'll twist it again for the epilogues lol


	79. The Iron Throne IV.

 

 

“Your grace,” Baelor Hightower was approaching. Jon looked up, to see Lord Hightower waving his guards to stand down.

Good, he understood, even if the nature of Jon’s request was really hard to miss, Jon wasn’t certain. Lords can be suspicious; they can also be dubious. Hightower didn’t come alone, after all, and Jon didn’t think he would walk across the camps, including Redwyne’s men, all by himself – if he walked. Jon would walk across the camps all by himself, what could any of these men do to him that the Night King didn’t? But Jon was Jon. He sat alone on the rocks, watching the sea. Except it turned to dark by now, as he kept sitting here – there really wasn’t anything to see anymore. He didn’t choose the location for the view either, though he chose it to allow himself some time to think. There was much to think about.

“Have your guards surround at distance,” he said, “I mean to remain uninterrupted.”

Baelor didn’t give orders. Jon assumed he merely waved them around, it seemed to be Baelor’s way. It was somewhat pompous in Jon’s eyes, not that his way was any better. He ordered people around plainly, without the slightest notion of consideration. He just did exactly that with Lord Hightower. Gods, he truly became accustomed to being a Targaryen prince. He wondered why he didn’t mind, and then, if he even should mind it. He can’t be apologetic anymore, not if he wanted to retain his position.

We both mean to help people; we can only do so from a position of strength. That’s what Dany told him once. She was right, Jon had to conclude.

He could hear Baelor sitting down beside him on the rock. “I sent supper to the Queen,” Baelor said lowly, “I am glad to hear she has woken. I also sent supper to her men.”

“What about your men,” Jon asked.

“Lost four thousand,” Baelor sighed, “And supplies. We burned our tents and the like.”

Jon chuckled, “I bet that was Griff’s idea,” he glanced at Baelor with a grin, “He got that from me. I have little regard for such things, but I am certain your men are cursing it in these rains.”

“Most of them are still in the city,” Baelor sighed once more.

“Any survivors?”

“They found some cellars, I was told,” Baelor said, “They took Maester Tybalt with them. They would have no need for a maester if they only found dead, we shall see come the morning.”

“We shall see a great many things by then, Lord Baelor,” Jon remarked, “I thank you for providing to Daenerys.”

“It is not something to thank for,” Baelor gave a slight smile, “Frankly, it is us who should be ashamed and thankful.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at that.

“I still remember,” Baelor began to explain, “You were Lord Commander, you wrote to my father. You asked for men and supplies, Winter is coming and the dead are rising with it, they are coming for the living. That is what you wrote.”

“Sam wrote it,” Jon said softly, “I only signed the scrolls.”

“Either way, we laughed it off,” Baelor sounded honest, remorseful. “If only we believed, we, Hightower. We know things, we know a great deal more than others, and we laughed it off. Even when the scrolls came, join Aegon Targaryen, who leads the fight against the dead… the dead broke through the wall, three battles and still undefeated… we did nothing, immersed in our own problems not seeing how little they were in the great scheme of things. I am deeply ashamed, I never thought I’ll be ashamed to be a Hightower.”

“It is in the past,” Jon said into the distance, “It’s not like Hightower was alone. No one sent men or supplies, no one came to join. Except Smallwood, with I think sixty men. I don’t even know what happened to him, I didn’t see him in the camp. None of it matters now, the war is over. The dead have been defeated, they shall never rise again, if the fire worshippers are to be believed.”

“And yet, you look troubled,” Baelor remarked, and Jon laughed aloud.

“One would think that my troubles would end with the war, right?” He said, “No, Lord Baelor, my troubles seem only beginning. Reality began to show itself.”

“We have to bind together now, even more so,” Baelor remarked, “The Queen tells me, that’s what you used to tell them all, to bind together, all the living must. I say, now more than ever, to survive winter.”

“It’s no longer about supplying the North, Lord Baelor,” Jon whispered.

“No, it is not,” Baelor sighed, “The survival of the Seven Kingdoms rest on three of those kingdoms, only one of which are committed to the cause.”

“Dorne and the Stormlands,” Jon nodded, “I’ll figure that out as well, somehow.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Baelor smiled, “Because there is no other way. We have supplies, but for all of Westeros? If winter will be as harsh as the maesters say, we all will starve. It’d be tragic, defeating the dead then dying of starvation.”

“You’ve got a sense of Sansa’s predicament,” Jon said, “I handed her a devastated kingdom. I can’t say I was a capable king. I can’t say that I considered what my war strategy will cause to my homeland and its people, I saw it necessary.”

“Was there any other way?”

“Not really,” Jon said firmly, “Not against a hundred thousand, not after they broke through the wall. Run, hide, decimate them. A war of attrition, because we had no chance of defeating them on the field, not for a long while. You’ve fought them on the field, imagine fighting a hundred thousand, with no more than thirty thousand behind you. I couldn’t risk it all on one battle.”

“Then it’s not worth lamenting about,” Baelor said kindly. “It had to be done, now we must look to resolve the rest.”

“Which is why I called you here, Lord Baelor,” Jon said.

“Oh I know,” Baelor’s voice hinted at the cheeky smile he allowed himself. “I’m told you’re not one for pleasantries, I didn’t think you’ll talk about the weather, else I wouldn’t have come to treat with you like this. I ain’t one for pleasantries either.”

“Let’s cut to the chase then,” Jon said. “You asked Sansa for the Lordship Paramount.”

“I asked that I can negotiate with you about it,” Baelor corrected, “She has no means to grant it, and she made no promises. If she did, I’d only doubt her.”

“There’s no reason to doubt her,” Jon remarked.

“I know that too, now,” Baelor said, “In truth, I am quite pleased. Gods, even envious. I have one lucky brother.”

“You made a marriage pact with her,” Jon hissed.

“Like any man with brothers would,” Baelor said, the cheekiness still present in his voice. “We all need securities. Especially in the situation.”

“Redwyne reasoned similarly,” Jon chuckled.

“Redwyne asked you for the Lordship Paramount?”

“Redwyne is in no position to ask anything of anyone,” Jon declared, “His only choice is to accept whatever he’s given, hoping it’ll be a merciful hand.”

“And will it? Be merciful.”

Jon took a deep breath. “That, I don’t know. I left it to Daenerys to decide.”

“I’m told the Queen listens to you most of all,” Baelor countered.

“Are you saying because you’d have me counsel her regarding Redwyne,” Jon asked suspiciously, “Or the Lordship Paramount?”

“Neither, really,” Baelor sighed. For once, his cheekiness was gone. “I find it matters little now. Like the Queen said, your cousin – there’s been enough bloodshed. Hightower has never been one for unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Is that why you haven’t asked me?”

“Perhaps,” Baelor sighed. “I found it wasn’t the time.”

Jon nodded. It really wasn’t. Jon’s earlier visit wasn’t about politics. It was to see Sansa safe, to see to Reed.

“Thank you for looking after them,” he whispered.

“Again, it’s nothing to thank for,” Baelor said. Jon had to smile.

“You need Daenerys’ consent,” he remarked, “If she takes the throne, you cannot marry your brother to my cousin, Lord Baelor, unless Daenerys gives her blessing.”

No response came. Baelor didn’t ask Jon to intercede, to Jon’s surprise.

“He’s not keen on it either,” he said instead, “He feels it unfair to your cousin, after her… previous marriages.”

“Your brother is full of surprises,” Jon smiled, “Did he tell you how I met him?”

“He should tell you the scolding he got for it,” Baelor laughed. “Humfrey is a dutiful boy, he would do his duty when told. But he’s a free spirit, he always has been. He wanted no crowns; he has no interest in such things.”

“Everyone wants something,” Jon remarked.

“Humfrey wanted to sail the world, be a famous sellsword.” Baelor said, the love in his voice for his little brother was unmistakeable. “At least when he was a boy, that was his goal. He even went for it, once he came of age, he went to see the world, to find our sister. He also wanted to be a necromancer, but that runs in the family.”

“Are there really necromancers in Hightower,” Jon asked suddenly.

“Now if I told you,” Baelor laughed, “I’d give away the family secret that makes everyone fear us. I cannot tell you, your grace, like you cannot tell me how you control that dragon of yours.”

“By blood, according to Sam,” Jon joined the laugh, “But in truth, I had little say in it. The dragon chose me, I merely went along.”

“Humfrey said your arrival floored him, like a conqueror, a king,” Baelor remarked.

“I am no king,” Jon countered.

“No one is, at this very moment,” Baelor corrected. “I have a feeling that is at the heart of this conversation, somehow.”

“You would support me taking the throne, I presume,” Jon said, confirming the assessment.

“I would,” Baelor said. “There’s no reason to deny it.”

“No, there is not,” Jon agreed.

“We may as well speak true,” Baelor declared, “Hightower will stand behind you if you take the throne.”

Jon didn’t answer at first. It wasn’t anything he didn’t expect, but Baelor’s frank words surprised him. It angered him to hear it, in part, but somewhere inside he respected the honesty, he found. Finally someone said things to his face instead of hatching plots.

“It is not your choice, Lord Baelor,” he said then, calmly, like every time he found himself asserting his authority lately. He didn’t even have to try anymore to control the fury that rose inside, control came like a natural instinctual response.

“No, it is not,” Baelor agreed, once more surprising Jon. “But like Queen Sansa said, there’s been enough bloodshed, for years. I can only agree with her assessment.”

“Then we agree on one thing, at the least,” Jon remarked, “It is a start.”

“We agree on a great many things, your grace,” Baelor said softly.

“Except Daenerys,” Jon hissed.

“But it’s not my choice,” Baelor threw Jon’s words straight back at him, “It is yours, and yours alone. I’d be stepping way out of line even insisting otherwise.”

“And if you don’t like my choice,” Jon measured his voice, as he asked, the most important question in this conversation, “What will you do then, Lord Baelor?”

“Accept it,” Baelor said without hesitation, “Like I said, I have no say in this. How many lords and ladies stepped out of line in recent years? How many of them are here with you? Hightower is here because we know our place. I’ll support your choice, because I will put trust in your choice, because without you none of us would be alive. It’s the least I can do.”

“And if you’ll be named Lord Paramount,” Jon pushed, he knew, but he needed to know.

“Then I’ll be Lord Paramount,” Baelor said nonchalantly. “There’ll be no purging of the Reach, Samwell Tarly will finally come to his inheritance and we’ll do what we should be doing, whatever we can do to ensure that peoples survive the winter. What we’ll do anyways. Like I said, it matters quite little now.”

Jon nodded. “And what about Redwyne?”

At that, Baelor sighed. “I was married to his sister.”

“Was,” Jon glanced at the man, “I thought you still are.”

“Was,” Baelor whispered, “My father arranged it, and for a long time it was an unhappy one. My objecting his brother didn’t help matters.”

“What happened,” Jon asked curiously.

“I’ve not told anyone yet,” Baelor said lowly. “But it is to come out anyway. She cut her wrists after I marched out, the messenger caught up with us two days after.”

“I am sorry,” Jon said, because that was the only thing to say.

“I am sorry too, for not sounding like a grieving husband,” Baelor remarked, “But we were strangers. A barren marriage plagued by family strife for years. She was unhappy, understandably so, even before Randyll Tarly’s betrayal. Every time she encountered Garth she fell into depression, seeing how utterly incapable Garth was proving himself to be, just as her proving the same in giving me an heir. Not that it matters, Garth fell in the battle.”

Jon stood swiftly, reminding himself he shouldn’t have. He stretched his legs, beginning to feel the effect of sitting on ice cold stone for the past hour, but his mind was already racing away. Baelor Hightower’s heir was his brother, Humfrey – betrothed to Sansa, heir to the Vale. Jon wanted to scream. Did Sansa realise yet? He wondered about this for the past few days, now Jon had it confirmed. He understood now, the power in a well-chosen marriage alliance.

“I am still sorry for your loss, Lord Baelor,” he said softly instead of all the things that rushed through his mind as response, the defensive, argumentative responses that wanted out of him, lashing out on impulse.

Baelor only nodded. “But I expect things from you,” Jon added. “I expect that you follow orders.”

“That goes without saying,” Baelor remarked, “I told you, without you none of us would be alive. I didn’t march here to fight Redwyne, I was to march because of Cersei’s call to arms, Ser Davos presented me with a way out of that. I would have been a fool not trying to preserve my life and my bloodline, your grace, I don’t want Hightower added to the long list of lost dynasties these past years. But I am not keen on further bloodshed. I am keen on establishing a way forward, and if Hightower can be instrumental in establishing peace in the realm, that would make me happy, whether or not you rule or I’m Paramount is only secondary to that.”

Baelor sighed as he stood, turning toward Jon.

“In fact,” he said, “Your cousin asked something of me. Something I intend to do just now.”

Jon was confused, as he watched Lord Baelor draw his sword. The Valyrian steel sword that his brother fought with, Jon could tell. He inadvertently took a few steps back, his hand already on the ruby by his side.

Baelor Hightower went down on one knee, laying the sword in front of Jon.

“My brother tells me that he knelt before you, offered this sword,” Baelor said, “It’s Vigilance, the sword of Hightower, your grace. And by this sword I swear to serve you, Jon Targaryen, come to your aid when called upon and stand by your side. Now and always.”

Jon stood straight. Now, this was unexpected. He silently scolded himself for suspecting Sansa mere moments ago.

Sansa asked for Hightower’s fealty to him? He wasn’t told of this by Ser Davos, he wondered, studying the kneeling Lord in front of him. What did he hope to gain from this? Baelor’s just given away his cards, willingly. Perhaps there was truth in the words he spoke earlier, Jon pondered. Perhaps there were men still who could see beyond their own greed. Perhaps he needed to learn to trust again, Jon concluded. But not without his eyes open, he reminded himself.

“And I vow that I shall ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour,” he said firmly, “But I also vow, Lord Baelor, should you ever betray me, my justice will be swift. To you, or to anyone else, for that matter.”

Baelor raised his head, cheeky smile on his face, “I’ve had no doubt of that, your grace.”

“I expect you to stand by the words you just spoke, Lord Baelor,” Jon concluded aloud, before he left Lord Hightower.

*****

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Tyrion remarked. “I was hoping, but I didn’t think you would.”

“You were hoping that I would kill Cersei,” Jaime hissed.

“Not that,” Tyrion shook his head, “Of course not. I meant, I didn’t expect you to resist her. I was hoping, but I wasn’t certain.”

Jaime chuckled. “You have little fate in me.”

“I’ve seen you forgive,” Tyrion whispered, “and forgive, again and again and again… I wondered if you forgave the Great Sept, you never spoke of it.”

“I didn’t forgive it,” Jaime said, “I couldn’t. How could I forgive? After all these years, being scorned upon, called Kingslayer and worse. I just couldn’t.”

“You truly switched sides,” Tyrion smiled.

“I suppose there is a point,” Jaime said lowly, “In every man’s life, when you look at yourself and around yourself and take account. What are you here for, what are you fighting for? What does it matter? Jon was right. Families, kingdoms, crowns and thrones… these mattered little to the dead, did they?”

“It feels good.”

“What does?”

“To be part of something,” Tyrion said, “Something other than father’s constant dynasty-furthering attempts. To do something good, it feels good.”

The flap opened to the tent, and Ser Brienne stepped in, on her face sudden confusion, even embarrassment.

“If I interrupted,” she began but Tyrion jumped from the chair.

“You’ve interrupted nothing, Ser,” he smiled, “I came to see that my brother was on the mend, and I was about to take my leave, seeing that he’ll be on his feet causing us more trouble for many years to come.”

He grinned, at Jaime rolling his eyes at his words, before he nodded to Brienne and rushed out of the tent. He had a feeling, a gut instinct that he was not required, chuckling at the thought. Jaime shook off his chains of a lifetime, but he didn’t do it alone. Someone was there with him, even when not there by his side. One look at his brother’s face as it lit up at the woman was all Tyrion needed.

He’ll be the one who’ll cause trouble for years to come, he reminded himself. He and his big mouth, because no way he wouldn’t tease the life out of Jaime Lannister if he was right, for finally having to climb for it. He laughed aloud at the thought. Finally, something felt right in the world.

*****

“Lord Tyrion is right,” Brienne remarked, “You seem to be very much on the mend, Ser.”

“Blame Hightower’s venison stew,” Jaime remarked nonchalantly, but his face was already turning serious.

“If I could, I would’ve come to see you,” he said lowly, “To thank you.”

“Thank me for what,” Brienne looked honestly confused, “I’ve done nothing that commands gratitude.”

“You saved my life,” Jaime whispered, “For whatever it’s worth, you saved my life in the throne hall, dragged me all the way to the beach… Thank you.”

Brienne pondered on it for a long moment, while her face softened.

“You stood for me against Daenerys,” Jaime continued, “You and Sansa Stark, I would’ve never expected that. Thank you, for that as well.”

“You stood for me,” she said lowly, “Against the Bolton men. You stood for me and you lost your hand for it. And you saved my life, when you came back for me, risked your life against the bear for me. There is nothing to thank me for, Ser Jaime.”

“So, was it repayment,” Jaime raised an eyebrow, “To make us even with each other?”

Brienne didn’t answer. Jaime watched as she thought about it, not once seeing on her face an affirmation.

“I am glad you are on the mend, Ser,” she said, before she bowed and left the tent. Jaime sighed. He would’ve asked her to stay, to talk about things. Anything really, he found that he would’ve enjoyed her company even if they didn’t talk at all. But if they did, he would’ve liked it. He could always talk to Brienne, he found, smiling at the realisation. When he needed a friend, he talked to Brienne. Or he wished to talk to Brienne, more times than not she wasn’t around. How many things would’ve been different if she had always been around.

*****

Jon returned to Dany’s tent, but didn’t feel yet that he was ready to go in. He turned around and began his usual walk around the camp. He didn’t mean to go as far as he normally would – no, his intention now wasn’t to be seen by the men, to provide the reassurance he knew his presence provided. He wanted to gather his thoughts. Make decisions.

In fact, he was trying to do that while sitting alone at the rocks, but the meeting he arranged interrupted him, and he didn’t arrive at any conclusions yet. He couldn’t, he needed to know where Hightower stood.

There was good in this, and there was bad. Bealor Hightower’s heir had fallen in battle. His new heir was his younger brother – Sansa’s betrothed. Sansa who stood to inherit the Vale, albeit no one spoke of it aloud, Jon found himself wonder if Sansa realised it yet. And Jon had no news yet of Lord Edmure. He’s sent Tormund back north to find them, sign of them, any clue that they found a port and ships, and sailed to Dragonstone.

Until now, he saw it better not to trouble Sansa or Arya with the news that he encountered Lord Edmure. Now, he found, this decision had a different basis – that of the Targaryen prince.

He had to figure this out. He gave the North its independence, but what happened when the Queen in the North inherited a southern kingdom owing fealty to the Iron Throne?

She’ll become a vassal of the crown. Except, she’s an equal to the crown. The situation needed resolving, Jon found himself in need of Tyrion Lannister’s brains. He chuckled at the thought. He spent his past days scorning Tyrion Lannister for stupidity. Yet, he had to admit, there was no man better suited to counsel him.

He turned around, wondering if he even knew which tent belonged to the Imp. He didn’t need to look though, as Tyrion Lannister just walked across the path in front of him as he turned.

“My Lord,” Jon called out, and Tyrion stopped. He bowed and came closer to Jon.

“I’ve not yet found the solution,” he said.

“Solution?”

“How we all survive winter,” Tyrion remarked, “You tasked me to put my mind to it and make myself useful, your grace.”

“Aye, I did,” Jon smirked, “Those were harsh words.”

“Harsh truths require harsh words, your grace,” Tyrion said calmly. “I find myself in agreement with them.”

“How about you and I put our minds to good use and look for solutions together,” Jon asked, to Tyrion’s surprise. After the moment of shock has passed, however, he motioned his hand to indicate the way to Jon.

“How about we do it in my tent,” he said, “Seeing that you opted for none for your own. I do agree that the Queen should not be troubled with problems, she should be given solutions.”

“See, Lord Tyrion,” Jon remarked kindly, “We find ourselves in agreement, once more.”

*****

“Late night stroll?” Humfrey looked up. He and Sam were immersed in a book at Baelor’s table, as Lord Hightower entered the tent.

“Where’s the Queen?” Baelor asked instead of an answer, he seemed agitated, even excited to Humfrey. Something happened, he knew in an instant.

“Resting, my Lord,” Sam said hesitantly as he stood, bowing, making his way to leave. Humfrey watched Baelor keenly, so keenly that he even forgot to wish goodnight to Sam. Not that Sam required it, that boy was used to silent dismissal, much to Humfrey’s dismay.

“We need to talk,” Baelor dumped himself on the chair Sam occupied before. His eyes settled on the book, some kind of history book, no doubt. Humfrey leaned back, awaiting the explanation that was surely forthcoming.

“Jon Targaryen asked me for a private meeting,” Baelor said lowly.

“And?”

“Nothing,” Baelor said, “I may not be as good a politician as I thought myself to be, for I got exactly nothing out of it, and I am certain that he gained more than I did.”

“Don’t start plotting now, Baelor,” Humfrey remarked.

“I don’t intend to,” Baelor sighed, “I’ve never been much of a plotter. I think we lack that in our blood. But there are things you should know, because judging by my conversation with Jon Targaryen, he figured it out. If he’s half as smart as I think he is, he’ll do something about it.”

“I don’t understand,” Humfrey remarked. Truly, he didn’t. He cared little for politics, not that he couldn’t fathom it, but it wasn’t in his interest, he stayed away as much as he could. Something that now for sure counted as weakness.

“The Queen,” Baelor said, “She’s heir to the Vale. You are heir to Hightower, at the least, and unless the Targaryens chose to support Redwyne as Lord Paramount or name our Samwell here, you may become heir to the Reach itself.”

“It’d be foolish to do either,” Humfrey remarked, “In the current circumstances.”

“It would,” Baelor nodded. “But it leaves the Targaryens with a problem, they stand to lose two of their six kingdoms, Humfrey. We’ve become a threat.”

Humfrey took a deep breath at that. It was true, he could see it now. “We almost look like Lannisters, if you look at it from this way,” he said lowly, “Tywin Lannister sacked Kings Landing, joining the rebellion late, only at the pivotal moment and place. Then they grabbed the crown.”

“Exactly,” Baelor remarked, “Which is why I gave information to Jon Targaryen. I am not Tywin Lannister, Humfrey.”

“No one would dare to claim that you are,” Humfrey smiled, “You always had our best interest at heart. You always looked out for our people.”

“And that is what I intend to continue doing,” Baelor declared.

“So what now,” Humfrey asked, “Are you going to call it off? My betrothal?”

Baelor gave his brother a warm smile. “You would like that,” he said. “But I won’t. I will do nothing. I will do what I told Jon Targaryen, which is exactly nothing but what he tells me to do.”

“And what if they suspect you,” Humfrey asked.

“Then he shall tell me to do things accordingly,” Baelor remarked. “I swore fealty to him.”

*****

Jon finally returned to Dany’s tent, ready. He found that he didn’t need much from Tyrion Lannister after all. In truth, the Imp barely spoke, only nodded to Jon. He was shocked at times, surprised and even amused, but he listened as Jon spoke, and declared in the end that he had nothing to add. Jon had it figured out, things that Tyrion didn’t even began to ponder.

Not that Tyrion knew of Sansa’s betrothal, for one. Jon kept that to himself until now, just as he did Lord Edmure’s survival. As he left Tyrion’s tent, he ordered scouts to the North, to find Tormund and the freefolk, bring news. Or bring whomever they were found with – not wanting to name Lord Edmure just yet.

Daenerys sat by the table, with solemn face staring at the bowl in front of her.

“Why don’t you eat,” Jon asked softly.

“Did you know that Varys has little birds everywhere,” she asked instead. “When he served in Kings Landing, he had them in every keep, and beyond, in Essos… He knew everything about everything.”

“That’s why he’s called Spider I presume,” Jon remarked as he sat beside her. “The stew is from Hightower, everyone had it today. It’s venison.”

She pushed the bowl away from her.

“You need to eat,” Jon pleaded.

“What is the certainty of Varys’ not having his little birds reporting to him now? At Hightower’s camp, for example?”

She was afraid, Jon realised. She was stripped of her strength, and she was afraid.

He took the bowl, scooped up a mouthful and ate it. Then another one, and another. He broke a piece of the bread, and had that too, and washed it all down with the wine from Dany’s cup.

“That is a whole new level of sharing a meal,” he smiled, as he slowly pushed the bowl back in front of her. “Eat, it’s not poisoned.”

She sighed, but after a while, she began to eat. Jon sat and watched, from her hesitant beginning to her hearty stuffing herself. She was hungry indeed. When she finished, he took her hand in his.

“Listen to me,” he said, “You are a Queen. You are the Breaker of Chains and the mother of Dragons, you fucking burned slave cities in Essos. Stop being this imitator of yourself. You walked into fire before, you’ve lost everything before. You haven’t lost everything now.”

Her eyes grew wide as he spoke.

“You are a dragon, Dany, be a dragon. Be angry, furious, breathe fire, whatever you want but get yourself together.”

Finally, she squeezed his hand. “I needed this,” she said, as she stood from the table.

“You did,” Jon nodded, watching as she began to pace the tent, much like he used to when he was troubled.

“Do you trust me, Dany,” he asked then, and she stopped.

“I only have you left,” she said softly. “Everyone else has failed me, those who didn’t are dead. I cannot afford not to trust you.”

“Good, because you are my blood,” Jon declared, “and I want you to trust me.”

“And what will await me at the end of trusting you, Jon,” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You just said you trust me,” Jon smiled, “You and I should talk, we have decisions to make.”

“Just the two of us,” Dany asked.

“Just the two of us,” Jon said, “We are the last Targaryens, Dany. No one should tell us what to do.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered then.

“Then just do what I tell you to do,” Jon said as he stood. He walked to her, taking her face in his palms he looked in her eyes.

“We are the last,” he said, “We are family. Listen to me.”


	80. The Iron Throne V.

 

By the time the assembly began, the first rays of sun could be expected on the horizon, the sky began to clear. The fiery hand lined the clearing, their fire spears providing the light required for the proceedings, just as well as holding back the curious onlookers, wondering what came to their lords and Queens to assemble and freeze out here so early in the morning. Sansa and Arya arrived with Ser Davos, Lord Baelor with his brother and Sam. Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister, Ser Jaime Lannister leaning on the shoulder of Sandor Clegane this time. Even Griff limped out of his tent, albeit Edric Snow and Lord Reed were both absent, their condition preventing their attendance.

They all looked around wondering what is going on, the same curiosity in their eyes that brought the onlookers despite the freezing temperature of the night. Finally, Dany and Jon arrived. The dragons circled above the small gathering in the clearing.

“Bring them out,” Jon said, and soon enough, Qyburn, Varys and Lord Redwyne was led out, stopped at the side of the clearing.

“Qyburn,” Jon called the name, and the man was led to stand in front of them.

“Qyburn,” Daenerys repeated, “That is your name?” The man only nodded, looking up to the sky.

“You stand accused of treason and murder,” Daenerys declared, “As is the law, you shall receive a trial, but you are denied the option of trial by combat. My nephew shall be your judge.”

“How do you plead?” Jon asked.

“I did what I thought was right, your grace,” Qyburn declared with a clear voice, “To help you win the Iron Throne.”

“Do you confess?” Jon asked.

“I confess to what I have done,” Qyburn said, glancing at Varys, “I served Cersei Lannister. I saved his brother once, and they took me into their service. I helped her blow up the Great Sept, your grace, because I saw no other way. But then I learned of your arrival. I met you at the Parley, at the Dragonpit, and I knew then that there is a way out. I was contacted by your advisors, Queen Daenerys, and did what I was asked to do. I stalled Cersei Lannister, I withheld information that would’ve aided her in retaining her armies.”

“Have you ever tried to warn the Queen that taking the city was dangerous to her forces,” Jon asked.

“I saw no need,” Qyburn answered, “After all, Lord Tyrion is the Queen’s advisor. He knew of the caches of wildfire in the city, I thought at the time, he will advise the Queen wisely.”

Daenerys glanced at Tyrion, catching the sight of him swallowing hard at what they heard.

“So you didn’t see it your duty to advise the Queen of the danger, albeit you claim to have served her interests,” Jon remarked aloud.

“I was asked to focus on the dead, your grace,” Qyburn argued, “My studies were to figure the way to defeat the dead, which is what I was tasked to do, and to stall the usurper Cersei Lannister as much as I could. I was asked to leave the city, should the dead arrive, so that I could perform the tasks I was given and defeat the dead.”

“And have you,” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“The dead are dead, your grace,” Qyburn remarked.

Jon was furious. How dare this man claim his achievements for himself?

“Have you known of the abduction plot,” he asked then.

“Myles Thoyne came to visit the usurper,” Qyburn explained, “And she asked for Queen Sansa, Queen Daenerys and your grace to be captured and brought to her, as repayment following the Golden Company breaking their contract. Thoyne promised that shall be done, your grace, which I reported to the Queen’s advisors after.”

“And how did you report to the Queen’s advisors,” Jon asked.

“By raven, your grace.”

“Raven to where,” Jon asked, “The Queen’s advisors were on the march with the Queen.”

Qyburn glanced toward Varys once more.

“There was an intermediary, your grace, because of that,” he insisted, “I cannot be held responsible if said intermediary failed to report in time. I reported duly my findings and progress.”

“You would have us believe,” Jon remarked, “That you laboured under the impression that orders you receive came from Queen Daenerys.”

“I believed thus, your grace,” Qyburn declared.

Jon glanced at Daenerys, who shook her head slightly. She had no more questions she would ask.

“Which advisor of the Queen provided you with orders?” Jon stepped closer as he asked.

“Lord Varys, your grace,” Qyburn answered, “Albeit, my orders were signed in the name of Queen Daenerys. If I may…”

Jon nodded, and the man shuffled in his pockets before he pulled out a scroll. Jon took it, read it.

“Anything else you wish to add,” He asked.

“If there have been sinister motives behind my orders,” Qyburn began, “I was not aware, your grace.”

“Were you aware of how many people burned in the Great Sept? Or in the city behind us?”

Qyburn sighed, but to this question, he had no answer. Jon turned toward Daenerys and the crowd of Lords present. No one had further questions, or anything else to say. In truth, besides Daenerys and Tyrion, most of them were still stunned to varying degree at what was unfolding.

He turned back toward Qyburn, nodding at the two guards, who pushed the man down on his knees, before they stepped aside.

“Qyburn,” Jon raised his voice, “Charged of treason by plotting my abduction, I find you NOT GUILTY.”

Jon could hear the gasps behind him, as he continued.

“Charged of treason by serving the usurper Cersei Lannister, I find you GUILTY.”

Qyburn looked up, straight into Jon’s eyes.

“Charged of murder, by blowing up the Great Sept of Baelor, causing the death of Kevan Lannister, Lancel Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Margaery Tyrell, Loras Tyrell among many others, I find you GUILTY.”

“Furthermore, I find you in contempt of this trial by withholding the truth. Cersei Lannister could not have plotted the blowing up of the whole city without your knowledge. Negligence to report the threat is stupidity, not a crime. But I find that it was neither negligence, nor stupidity that caused your compliance with that plot, and you must’ve carried out the usurper’s orders for it to succeed, as you did when she blew up the Sept. Therefore, you are complicit and guilty.”

By then, Qyburn’s face turned from hopeful to fearful. Jon glanced back at Daenerys, who nodded her agreement. He took a deep breath.

“On behalf of Daenerys Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Queen of Meereen and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, I, Jon Targaryen sentence you to die. Any last words?”

Qyburn opened her mouth to speak, searching for words, that didn’t come.

“Good,” Jon said, as he swung Blackfyre and took his head.

*****

Jon walked back to Daenerys while the guards took the body and the head away, handing her the scroll. She’s read it, her face emotionless, before handing it to Tyrion. His face wasn’t emotionless at reading it – he was furious.

“Is beheading the new way,” he hissed.

“Depends,” Daenerys shrugged. “We shall see.”

“Varys,” she called out, and the guards led the Spider to the clearing. Avoiding the pool of blood in front of him, Varys stood straight, defiant, fingers locked together in front of his belly as usual. As if nothing was amiss. But his face has aged, as he glanced up to the sky, to the dragons circling above, the first rays of sun by now allowing their shapes to be clearly seen.

“Will I be tried by Jon Targaryen,” he asked, looking at the assembly in front of him.

_Be a dragon. Be angry, furious, breathe fire, whatever you want._

Dany stepped forward. “Lord Varys,” she began, her voice measured, her face lacking any emotion, the mask of a Queen. “You stand accused of treason.”

“You hatched a plot following my arrival to Dragonstone, and the revelation that I have family still living, a nephew. You plotted to remove my nephew from my side, despite knowing well, that he was the only one who could end the war with the dead. You risked all our lives, the lives of our peoples, because you couldn’t find it in yourself to accept that my nephew, son of my brother Rhaegar has a claim on the Iron Throne.”

She spoke clearly, her voice not once faltering as she detailed her assessment, no sign of the insecurity in herself that she struggled with these past days had shown on the surface. She was glad for that, just as much as she was for the silence around her, as she took a deep breath and continued.

“We investigated the charge against you, Lord Varys. We obtained witness statements which confirm that you acted as instigator in the plot to abduct my nephew, the Queen in the North and myself, many eye witnesses confirming that the traitor Myles Thoyne who committed the crime of abducting my nephew has reported to you, acted upon your order when he attempted to win the leadership of the Golden Company.”

“We satisfied ourselves at this gathering, that you provided instructions to Qyburn, serving as Hand to the Usurper Cersei Lannister, yet you failed to report the threat to my armies. In fact, you spoke up to me in support of the taking of the city.”

“We have witnesses who confirmed that you provided me with the flask of water which contained the poison, therefore you committed an attack on my person. We received testimony confirming that you ordered Lord Redwyne to stand down his army when the dead arrived, thus depriving the northern battle with much needed support, furthermore you instructed that they stand in support of Myles Thoyne.”

“I find it despicable, Lord Varys, that you claimed to me on numerous occasions that you have the interests of the people of Westeros at heart. Yet you allowed the burning of Kings Landing, your plots not only prolonged the war against the dead but caused us to lose two additional kingdoms now devastated by the dead, risked all of our survival in the war and the coming winter. We can only wonder how many lives you sacrificed, Lord Varys, we will never be able to count those who perished thanks to your treachery.”

Jon looked around at the men surrounding the clearing. They rumbled; no doubt surprised to hear the Queen speak as such.

“Finally, following the return of my nephew and the failure of your plot, you attempted to abduct my Hand, the very man you intended to frame for your crimes. Tell me, Lord Varys, do you have anything to add? Have I missed anything?”

“I acted in your best interest, your grace,” Varys spoke calmly, “You came for the Iron Throne. I wanted you to win the Iron Throne.”

“You wanted to marry me off,” Daenerys countered. “To whom, Lord Varys? Who is the suitor we speak of? And once you married me off, and everything I have, your chosen suitor also has, what would you have done, Lord Varys? Who aids you from Pentos?”

Varys only blinked at the last question, but barely visibly, worry ran across his eyes.

“Just another footsoldier,” he said. “You found Qyburn not guilty of what he had no knowledge about, and justly so. None of them knew of my plans, I enlisted them to ensure the success of you ascending to the throne, with the best advise behind you, your grace.”

“And who would that be, Lord Varys,” Daenerys asked, “You?”

Varys didn’t answer. Instead, he bowed deeply to her, and Daenerys wondered for a moment if the fine venison stew will find its way back up her throat. She stepped closer.

“Who is the suitor,” she asked lowly as she stepped close to Varys.

“It was me, your grace,” Varys claimed, his eyes wandering off to Jon, “It matters little, you are barren, and I... well I don’t have the means to test it. It was a plot for what is best for the Seven Kingdoms. A Queen with the right name, and a man who looks after the people. A just rule, your grace.”

“You mean, your just rule,” she hissed, but she didn’t wait for answer. As she walked back to her place, she shook her head to Jon.

“Lord Varys,” she raised her voice as she turned toward the man, “You are found guilty of treason. I, Daenerys Targaryen, sentence you to die.”

She watched, as Varys glanced at Jon, but Jon didn’t move. No one did. Instead, the winds picked up, the dragons landed on the two sides of the small group of aristocrats. They shuffled, Dany could hear, but she didn’t look.

“I made you a promise, Lord Varys,” Daenerys said, loud and clear for all to hear, “I promised you that if you ever betray me, I will burn you alive. You said you expect nothing less from the Mother of dragons. And yet, you betrayed me.”

She took a deep breath, looking around at the men gathered behind the circle of the Fiery Hand, their shocked faces in the fire light of the spears, at the sky above them, turning to shades of purple. At the man who betrayed her trust.

“Dracarys.”

Two dragons leaned closer at once and began breathing fire at the man. She watched, as the figure disappeared in the flames, listening to the gasps. She watched as the figure once more emerged, now burning, before it fell. Finally, she felt like a Queen again. Jon was right. She was a dragon. She could be nothing else, she had to be a dragon.

*****

“This is all for now,” Daenerys turned and walked away from the scene, Tyrion closely following her. Jon had no doubt that Dany was soon to face a hundred of questions at the least. He wanted to follow, to make sure that Tyrion didn’t intervene in his plans. The last thing they needed was interference, but he couldn’t stop it in the end.

“Your grace,” Lord Baelor Hightower stepped to him. Before he began to speak, another man arrived, a young Snow named Addam, used to squire for Edric. “Your grace,” the boy said hesitantly, and Jon laughed.

“There’s high demand for me, I can see,” he said nonchalantly, before nodding toward Baelor to speak.

“Report of survivors, your grace,” Baelor declared. It got the attention of those around them, both Baelor and Jon noticed. “Unsullied, some children, your grace, found in a cellar. They’ve been brought to my camp.”

“See to it that Lord Tyrion is informed,” Jon said, “But tell him, I said see to them himself, before telling the Queen, whether the commander is among them. Any news of the girl?”

Baelor’s lips turned to a slight grin, “She is definitely among them, your grace.”

Thank the Gods. Dany needed some good news.

“Go on, catch Lord Tyrion then,” Jon said, and Baelor, his brother and their men rushed away. Jon also left, nodding to Sansa and Arya, albeit they were facing away, talking with Ser Brienne, they haven’t seen him. He can have familiar conversations later, he told himself. A messenger from Edric could mean either something he needed, or something he dreaded.

“Go on Addam,” Jon said kindly as he pulled the boy to walk with him.

“The red bearded man arrived in camp,” the boy began, and Jon sighed of relief. Thank goodness it wasn’t what he dreaded – or at least not yet.

“And?”

“He just said I should come and fetch you,” the boy said, before he rushed to add, “Your grace. I’m sorry.”

Jon had to smile. They walked in silence for a few moments, a long while in fact. Finally, he mustered himself to ask. “How is your commander, Addam?”

“Not well, your grace,” the boy said lowly.

Jon stopped. “Go after Lord Hightower, Addam,” he said, “You may catch him before he leaves, or he’ll be on the way to the Hightower camp, to the west. Tell him I sent you, I ask for his maester to be sent with you. Have that maester look at Edric for me.”

The boy nodded, light sparkle of hope in his eyes. Jon should’ve thought of it sooner, he saw how that maester attended Reed. The northern maesters seemed to be quite… crude. If Sansa’s treatment at the hand of one was any indication, they did more damage than good. Jon wondered why – perhaps the North received the rut.

Maester Luwin was no rut, Jon reminded himself as he watched the boy run away. He continued on his way to the northern camp, to see Tormund. Hoping for the news he wanted to hear. Like a game, no, like building something, he wanted the pieces to come together, to align for what he planned to work. Never before did his plans work out the way he intended them to be. He hoped this time was different.

*****

“I cannot find it in me to feel sorry for Varys,” Sansa remarked.

“I don’t think you should be looking,” Arya shrugged. “I don’t think he was much different to Littlefinger. It sounds like he did to Daenerys what Littlefinger did to you.”

“He didn’t sell Daenerys into marriage,” Sansa noted aloud sternly.

“No, but he would’ve,” Arya grinned, “To himself.”

“There’s advantage to him over other men,” Sansa said lowly. No clever response came to that, as they walked for a few moments in silence.

“What’s he like?” Arya asked, just as Sansa turned toward the Hightower camp. It was getting cold to spend so much time out in the wind. “Humfrey Hightower, what’s he like,” she heard Arya repeat.

“I really don’t know, Arya,” Sansa said lowly, “He’s courteous. I think he’s probably smart.”

“I hear he fought a single combat, until Jon broke it off,” Arya shrugged, “That doesn’t sound too smart.”

Sansa smiled at her sister, “I hear he fought quite well though,” she remarked, “I think it’s brave.”

“Have you even spoken to him since the battle,” Arya asked.

Sansa shook her head.

“Gods, you’re supposed to marry him soon, you know,” Arya laughed, “And you’re supposed to do things with him. You’ll be making babies, little kings and queens and necromancers…”

“Arya!” Sansa stopped, shock on her face.

“You’re still so easy to upset,” Arya laughed.

Sansa waved her away, pretending to be furious. She wasn’t really. Lately, she found that not many things made her furious. Perhaps it was growth, perhaps it was the war, or the fact that she saw enough of the world to know that petty things weren’t worth being angry about.

“Do you want to talk about it,” she heard Arya ask behind her and turned, not because of the question, but how she asked it. She wasn’t smug anymore.

“Ramsay, do you want to talk about it,” she repeated.

“There isn’t much to say,” Sansa said lowly.

“There is,” Arya said, “he raped you. For months he kept raping you, and now you are set to marry a man, who will want to lay with his beautiful new wife. There is a lot to talk about.”

Sansa took a deep breath.

“You don’t mince your words,” she whispered, “You never did.”

“Because there’s no point beating around the bush,” Arya said softly. “I tell you something.”

“What?”

“Something I’ve not told anyone,” she said. “Before the battle, at Winterfell. I went to the smith, Gendry. I told him I want to fuck him.”

Sansa chuckled. “That’s so you,” she remarked.

“That’s not the point,” Arya said, “The point is that it was good. He did things and they felt good, and it hurt at first but then it was really good. That’s what I wanted to tell you, that I think it depends on the man.”

“I know it does,” Sansa whispered, looking towards the tents. They seemed too far away, and yet too close. “Some enjoy hurting, some don’t.”

“Some want to make you feel good,” Arya added. “I think Hightower will want to make you feel good. Gods, I hear he calls you his queen.”

“I will be his queen,” Sansa declared.

“And his wife, too,” Arya added, “And he better be good to you, else I’ll cut it off, then he will make no babies. No matter how handsome he is.”

Sansa stopped once more. “He is, isn’t he,” she whispered.

“He’s not bad,” Arya grinned, “He’s not a dwarf either. You need a tall man. He’s tall enough. I think you need to speak to him.”

“And what would I tell him,” Sansa set out once more toward the camp, with Arya beside her.

“You’ll converse about things,” she said, “You know, get to know each other. What you liked to do as kids, what’s your favourite food, and your colour, how he likes his shirt collars because you’ll be making him a lot of shirts, things like that.”

Sansa had to chuckle, “When I gained use of my hand,” she said smiling, “I’ll be making him lot of shirts.”

“That’s a good trade,” Arya said. “He’ll be putting babies inside your belly and you’ll be making shirts for him. And coats, and wests and capes…”

“It may not happen,” Sansa remarked then, barely audibly.

“Why would it not happen,” Arya asked, “You agreed to it, he agreed to it…”

“Hightower owes fealty to the Iron Throne, Arya,” Sansa explained. “To marry a foreign ruler, they require the blessing of their own.”

“Jon will give it,” Arya shrugged.

“You know the answer to that,” Sansa said, but still, she stopped. “There is something.”

“What,” Arya stopped in front of her.

“No one told me,” Sansa whispered, “But there are rumours. About the Vale, that the dead took it. They also took the Riverlands, Arya.”

“I am missing the point,” Arya said, awaiting an explanation.

“The point is,” Sansa whispered, “Six kingdoms are under Targaryen rule, either way, and then there’s the North in our hands. The Vale had Robyn, our cousin as its Lord, and he’s had no heir. He was at the Eyrie, Arya, if the dead took the Eyrie then the Vale belongs to us by birthright. If uncle Edmure is lost in the Riverlands, and his son with him, then the Riverland belong to us by birthright.”

“That’s two kingdoms lost to Jon and Daenerys,” Arya remarked.

“There’s more,” Sansa whispered, “Lord Redwyne opposed Lord Baelor for the Lordship Paramount of the Reach, but he’s a prisoner accused of treason. There’s no one else to oppose Lord Baelor, there isn’t really an option but to appoint him.”

“Sam is an option,” Arya noted.

“No, he isn’t,” Sansa explained, “His family betrayed the Reach, he’d never be accepted over Lord Baelor who stood for the Tarlys, and Hightower is the most powerful family besides Redwyne now. Lord Baelor has no children, Arya. Rumour has it his wife killed herself after he left Old Town, she was a Redwyne. He had another brother, who was an idiot truth be told, but he fell in battle. This means that my betrothed is now Lord Baelor’s heir.”

“Gods,” Arya’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes,” Sansa nodded.

“Have you told Jon,” Arya asked.

“Jon is not stupid,” Sansa remarked, “He knows, I’m sure of it. But I plan to talk to him. We have to do something; I don’t want another war Arya. But I don’t want to give up on anything that’s ours, either.”

“When,” Arya asked, but Sansa’s eyes were no longer on her. There were riders coming from the camp, Arya turned.

“Your grace,” their leader called out as they reached them, “Queen Daenerys called for a summit.”

“When,” Sansa asked.

“Now, your grace,” the soldier said, waving at another who brought forth two horses.

Sansa and Arya exchanged a worried look, but they both moved to mount.

*****

Jon watched as the dinghies reached the shore. In the distance, the Kraken was clearly visible on the sails, and just now, he could see Theon jumping out of a dingy. His sister jumped out of the other. Queen of the Iron Islands, the world was full of Queens, now.

“Jon,” he heard behind his back and turned.

Daenerys stood behind him, her guard at a distance. Her gaze fell on the sight below.

“You’re not too happy that they arrived,” she remarked, “You still don’t like them.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Jon smiled, “Though I’d say any concerns I have are most likely mutual. You gave sovereignty to the Iron Islands, so now if they begin raiding and raping we can’t hold them to account.”

“They won’t be reaving, raiding or raping,” she said, “That was the deal. Their sovereignty doesn’t mean I tolerate them stepping out of line.”

“And so far they haven’t,” Jon remarked.

“No, they haven’t,” Dany sighed, “They brought the ships you wanted.”

Jon nodded silently. They stood for a while, watching the sight.

“Did you know that Hightower burned their army tents, and the company too, in the battle,” she asked then.

“Aye,” Jon grinned slightly, “Told Baelor to blame me for teaching Griff such fighting methods.”

“I told them to take the Unsullied tents,” she said lowly, and Jon turned toward her in surprise. But she only glanced at him calmly.

“They are sleeping in the open, in the rains,” she explained, “It’s not like I have use of empty tents.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered.

“For what,” she asked, “You had nothing to do with it. Justice was meted out to those who did.”

“You thought I’m in the city,” Jon said softly, “You sent your armies because you thought that you’re sending them for me. I know, Dany. I’m sorry.”

She gave him a slight smile.

“Lord Baelor’s men found Missandei,” she whispered. “You were right, Jon. Love is foolish.”

Jon chuckled at that. ”She went to find him,” he noted aloud.

“She did,” Dany sighed, “She did find him, Jon.”

“And?”

“She found him burning,” she said, her voice turning to cold as ice, “She said she recognised him by his dragonpin, only, and she wanted to die there. But he would not want that, so she tried to find her way out, she came upon two of the unsullied doing the same, and they ended up in a cellar. They took some children down there with them, they held watered linens to their faces. She has terrible burns.”

Jon thought about that lengthily. He wondered if he loved anyone so much as to run into death for them, to try and save them, against all odds, as he watched Dany watching the ships.

“Your grace,” they heard behind them, “And your grace, forgive me.”

Gendry stood all apologetic and embarrassed in front of them as they turned away from the view.

“You called me here, your grace,” he said hesitantly to Jon. Jon glanced toward Dany who nodded, and walked past the smith, toward her guards. Then she turned.

“Don’t be long, Jon,” she said, “I already called for the summit. They are assembling.”

“This won’t take long,” Jon nodded, and she walked away, her guard behind her. Jon exhaled, lengthily, as if weight of stones fell off his chest. Love is indeed foolish, he thought, as he looked back at the smith. Take this boy, for one, drooling over Arya. Love is the most foolish thing that can ever take hold in a man. Or a woman.

“We should be quick,” Jon remarked.

“Aye,” Gendry relaxed, “I heard the Queen.”

“I won’t mince my words, Gendry,” Jon said, “You served me well in this war.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Gendry grinned, “But you can be honest, I don’t mind you telling me that I am a shit squire.”

“You are,” Jon laughed for a moment, before his mood returned to his former seriousness. “I ask you outright, because I have no time to sweettalking you, and you aren’t one who can’t take it as it comes. Who do you want on the Iron Throne?”

Gendry’s eyes grew wide. He opened his mouth to speak, beginning the sentence, the “I” was said, then said again and again, but no further words came.

“Have you gone mute,” Jon grinned.

“No, I,” Gendry shook his head, “I think you should be king.”

Of course you do, Jon thought. “And what if someone else will take the throne,” he asked.

“Then I want Queen Daenerys to be Queen,” Gendry declared, “She is the someone else, isn't she.”

Jon chuckled. The boy took it straight as it comes, but gave it too.

“What do you make of this all,” he asked then.

“Of you and the Queen,” Gendry asked, “Or the end of the war.”

“The latter,” Jon placed his hand on the smith’s shoulder, motioning to begin to walk. He only glanced back at the dinghies once more.

“I think we are fucked,” Gendry said, “Ser Davos said we are fucked. He said four kingdoms have been lost to the dead, most likely.”

“Ser Davos also doesn’t mince his words,” Jon nodded.

“And the city,” Gendry added, “I grew up in this shithole of a city. It was a stinking shithole, but it was home. Now it’s burned rubble. And it stinks of dead bodies.”

“It does,” Jon nodded once more. True, the city began to stink.

“Ser Davos said there’ll be struggle to survive this winter,” Gendry remarked.

“Aye,” Jon found himself nodding yet again.

“The city won’t need to be supplied at the least,” Gendry added, “The city took up a lot of supplies, it lived on supplies. I know it, I went through a couple times when supplies faltered. Price of bread rose to four times as much in as many days. In a week people were begging for crumbs on the streets, your grace.”

“Now they are begging no more,” Jon sighed.

“No, they aren’t,” Gendry said lowly.

“I bet you count your luck,” Jon grinned, “Left the city, saw the world, fought the dead… you had quite an adventure and you’re still breathing.”

“I had friends there,” Gendry said lowly, “But I do find myself lucky. Proud in fact. I fought the dead, I was squire to you. I am lucky.”

“We agreed that you were a shit squire, Gendry,” Jon laughed, “I hope you’ll do better in your next assignment, much better.”


	81. The Iron Throne VI.

 

“Humfrey,” Jon called out, seeing the young Hightower standing outside Daenerys’ command tent. He turned and bowed before he stepped toward Jon. “I find it hard to figure how to address you,” Jon smiled.

“As you did, your grace,” Humfrey remarked somewhat hesitantly.

“If I may have a word,” Jon stepped back, waiting for Humfrey Hightower to come to him.

“Desmera Redwyne,” He said the name, as if declaring something life-changingly important, once they stopped beside the tent.

“Lord Paxter’s daughter?” Humfrey looked surprised, stunned even.

“Yes, Lord Paxter’s daughter,” Jon laughed, “Do you know her?”

“I do,” Humfrey nodded, as shy as ever. Jon began to wonder if he intimidated the young Hightower, and if he did, then why exactly?

“I’ll have to drag it out of you word by word,” Jon laughed, “What is she like, in your opinion?”

Finally Humfrey chuckled, at the remark. “She’s quite comely, to speak the truth,” he said, “If not a little too slender as if she’s not eaten in a week. She must’ve taken after her mother, I mean, your grace has seen Lord Paxter.”

Jon laughed, but his eyes followed Sansa and Arya arriving. With Hightower guards, he noted to himself. He waved toward the two unsullied at the tent, who stopped his sisters – no, cousins - from entering the tent, nodding toward Jon, just as Jon’s eyes returned to Humfrey, “And? How do you know her?”

“She liked our books, whenever they were at Hightower she liked reading them very much,” Humfrey remarked, “She’s quite bookish for a woman. She was like that from when she was little. She’s smart.”

“The good kind of smart or the bad,” Jon asked.

“She has a good heart, your grace,” Humfrey remarked, “She wrote to Baelor when my father passed, about how sad it made her, how she felt for Hightower and hoped the problems between our houses will be resolved.”

“A mediator for peace, then,” Jon remarked.

“She asked her father to forgive the Tarlys, for one,” Humfrey said lowly, “Right there in our hall, for all of us to hear. That is when Lord Paxter sent her home from Hightower for the last time.”

“What did Lord Baelor say about that,” Jon asked then.

“He wasn’t Lord at the time,” Humfrey corrected Jon, albeit the question didn’t require correcting. “Baelor thought it reasonable, and brave. I remember him saying that. He’s right, Lord Paxter is quite… strict, I would say. He would’ve preferred more if Desmera was a boy, I think, he’s not overly fond of her. Shame, really, she’s pleasant. She’ll make a good wife, your grace, if that is why you ask.”

“What makes a good wife,” Jon laughed.

“I don’t know, I never had one before,” Humfrey said, his cheeks swiftly turning to all shades of red. “I apologise your grace. I meant to say, Lord Paxter was quite strict. He didn’t like Desmera lurking around us, he always sent her to sew and the like, he used to talk aloud about where the woman’s place is. Wherever that is, really, I am not sure he knows it himself.”

“I am not sure any man does,” Jon pondered aloud, glancing at Sansa and Arya waiting impatiently.

“You’ve travelled to Essos,” he said then, once more turning to Humfrey, “Why?”

“To speak the truth,” Humfrey said, “My sister. I wanted to sail across the Narrow Sea anyways, and I wanted to find my sister. Everyone gave up on her, and I found that unacceptable. I wanted to bring her home.”

“Did you find her,” Jon asked, resulting a deep sigh from Humfrey. “You needen’t tell me if you don’t want to, I don’t mean to pry. I heard stories of her.”

“Not everything you hear is true, your grace,” Humfrey said coldly. “I did find her; I can tell you that not everything said about her is true.”

“That must’ve been quite… a journey,” Jon remarked.

“It was,” Humfrey’s eyes lit up, “I almost became a sellsword. Then I almost hired a whole company. In the end I even…”

“Even what?” Jon asked as Humfrey’s voice chuckled.

“Cut the throat of a faceless man,” Humfrey whispered. “It was either him or me, I intended to come home, your grace.”

“When was this?” Jon asked, now he was the one stunned.

“When I came of age, your grace,” Humfrey said lowly, “Not long after Sam Tarly left for the Watch.”

Jon nodded in understanding. He didn’t expect these revelations. He got what he wanted, what he didn’t expect was the sudden rush of respect he felt, and the realisation that Humfrey Hightower fitted into his plans in every way, like a lost piece of puzzle. Jon went off to the wall when he came of age, because of duty, or so he told himself – he knew it was because he wanted to get away from Winterfell, from being called a bastard and treated as such. This man in front of him went off to Essos at the same time, because of something not completely dissimilar.

“Thank you, Humfrey,” Jon said kindly, “I appreciate your honesty.”

Humfrey Hightower bowed his head and left him, bowed his head in front of Sansa, nodded to Arya before he entered the tent.

“You made the Queen wait,” Arya called out, “Your grace.”

“I hear her ankle recovered already,” Jon smiled, “She can stand on her feet for a moment or two, no?”

Arya chuckled, just as Jon reached them, giving Arya a swift hug. “Arya, I need to speak to Sansa alone, I’m sorry.” Then he nodded toward the spot where he just came from, and Sansa followed him.

“You looked like you interrogated him,” she remarked with a slight grin.

“Are you already defending him,” Jon asked, returning the same slight grin.

“I don’t think he needs defending,” Sansa countered.

“I am sure he doesn’t,” Jon laughed, wondering how much Sansa knew of the little adventure he’s just learned of.

“Do you want to marry him,” He asked once his laughter calmed. “Say the truth, Sansa, because he requires our blessing, you know that. Do you want to marry him? Is that what you want?”

Sansa looked straight into Jon’s eyes at that. She seemed to be thinking about it, at least that’s how it looked to Jon. He reminded himself that he knew precious little of women and most times they didn’t exactly function the way he imagined. “Have you asked him the same?” She asked, confirming Jon’s thoughts.

“I haven’t spoken to him about you,” Jon declared the truth, “There are other matters I needed information about.”

“Do as you see best, Jon,” she whispered.

“There is something else,” Jon said, dismissing the topic altogether. “Something that can’t wait until we sit in that tent with them.”

“The Vale,” Sansa remarked.

“So, you know?”

“I heard rumours,” she whispered, “About the Riverlands, too.”

“If you inherit southern lands…” Jon began, but she interrupted.

“I want peace, Jon,” she declared.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Jon smiled. “We should talk after. I presume you’ll be furious enough to shout my head off once this is over, anyways.”

“Why,” She raised an eyebrow, “Are you planning on disinheriting me?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Jon said, “Or at least I think not. But there’s always a reason, I find. Don’t forget I marched across most of Westeros with you and Arya.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for yourself,” she smiled, as Jon began to escort her the few steps back to the entrance of the tent. “You’re not as much a victim as you portray yourself to be.”

“No, I am not,” he smiled, “But I do have the talent to make you angry.”

Sansa chuckled at that, “You do, Jon. You do.” With that, she entered the tent.

*****

By the time Jon entered, they were all seated. Ser Jaime and Tyrion Lannister, Samwell Tarly, Ser Davos Seaworth, Baelor and Humfrey Hightower, Yara and Theon Greyjoy, Arya and Sansa, and finally, Tormund Giantsbane and Jon Connington. There were three more chairs empty.

Facing the entrance, completing the circle of chairs were two armchairs – Once more, Jon reminded himself, he seems to have learned a lot from Howland Reed. Dany already sat in one of them, now he took the other. Baelor waved at his two guards, and they were all served a cup of wine, courtesy of Hightower. Jon didn’t mind, albeit didn’t ask for it either.

Then the guards left the tent. Jon found he would’ve needed another filling of the cup, and even then, he may not have found it in himself to speak. He took a deep breath, then he found himself in need of another.

“Thank you all for joining us,” he said, merely to bide for a few moments more, “For me to bore you to death. It’ll be quite boring, I’m afraid.”

Lord Baelor chuckled at that, so did Tyrion Lannister. These two will get along fine, Jon concluded. It’s what he needed now.

“You all know by now who I am,” he said, “Who my father was, and what that means. A lot has happened since the last time we spoke about it, and not all of you were present then. I mean to remedy that now, and I mean to address certain issues, first by stating that I am the last surviving son of Rhaegar Targaryen, therefore I am the rightful heir to the throne. The throne belongs to House Targaryen, represented by Daenerys and myself, and I will refer to it as the crown from now on.”

Eyebrows were raised, just as Jon expected. He wondered whether it was due to his declaration of himself as heir, or the fact that he didn’t declare himself king.

“We have to find a way forward,” he continued, “We have a continent in our hands, two third of it has been devastated by war, if not more. There used to be eight kingdoms on this continent, one north and seven south the Wall. Five of these have been devastated by the war against the dead, the Wall is no longer a continuous barrier between the lands. Winter has come, we have countless survivors, refugees, people that we who gathered here are responsible for.”

“Those who survived must be utterly dismayed, disillusioned with war by now, and likely fearful of what lies ahead. Yet while we defeated the dead, we are not yet free from war. We are weak, winter is here, our armies are decimated, our supplies dangerously limited. We are vulnerable to attack from outside as much as from within. Daenerys and I spoke lengthily about these matters these past days, and we made our decisions. We asked you all here, for you to hear them.”

He could see in the corner of his eye Arya’s suspicious look at him, tugging at Sansa’s sleeve, Sansa calming her. He turned toward Jaime Lannister.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon asked kindly, “I mean to cause you a considerable amount of pain, but it is a necessity, please stand.” Jon pointed toward the small clearing encircled by their chairs. He glanced at Daenerys, who gave him a smile, it was almost reassuring, he thought.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” he said, “Swear your fealty to House Targaryen.”

Jaime once more looked around, and Jon did as well, while Jaime managed to get down on one knee. They all seemed startled at the proceeding. Perhaps they expected a slightly more interactive gathering, Jon reminded himself. That’s not what he had in mind.

He listened to Ser Jaime swearing, watched him slowly stand once more, knowing full well that they all must’ve thought this was because of Ser Jaime being who he is, the Kingslayer. It was in a way, but not in the way they would’ve thought. “Ser Jaime Lannister,” Jon smiled, “Eldest son of Tywin Lannister, I thank you for your service in this war, and for your exceptional loyalty. Daenerys and I are in complete agreement that we gladly confirm the pardon you received by the usurper Robert Baratheon for your actions against King Aerys Targaryen. Those actions saved countless lives, and must be recognised as such. We confirm your release of your vows as member of the Kings Guard, Ser Jaime. We also confirm your inheritance and name you Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime Lannister’s eyes grew wide at hearing Jon’s factual chanting of this all. He fixed his wide eyes on Daenerys, and Jon glanced aside, too, but she only nodded with a warm smile to confirm her agreement.

“The crown also orders you to return to your lands, take account of your losses, both the dead, the survivors, winter supplies, gather accounts for every keep. Take Sandor Clegane with you, it is time he came to his own inheritance. Report back to the crown in no later than two full turns of the moon.”

Ser Jaime bowed deeply, before he took his seat. Jon’s eyes fell on Tyrion. He was touched, Jon concluded, he didn’t expect it. Good, Jon congratulated himself.

“Lord Baelor Hightower,” Jon asked, and Baelor stood. “Swear your fealty to House Targaryen, Lord Baelor.”

He did, albeit Jon could tell, he wondered why he swore twice, he could see it in his cheeky eyes.

“Lord Baelor,” he smiled, “I must thank you for your role in the battle on the Goldroad outside Kings Landing, for your willingness to fight as well as your goodwill in sharing your supplies with the survivors. Hells, I could make a long list of things to thank you for and we’d sit here until the sun sets while I list them all.”

Baelor chuckled, albeit he shook his head slightly.

“The crown confirms you as Lord Paramount of the Reach, Lord Baelor, you’ve proven Hightower worthy. The crown retains the right to Highgarden, however, considering we have to look into who it exactly belongs to.”

Baelor nodded his acceptance. Jon could see that Humfrey Hightower’s face lit up. He wondered if Sansa’s betrothed will be just as cheerful by the time this meeting ends.

“I ask Lord Baelor that you send an assembly of men home, and complete the same review as Ser Jaime, by the same time. I also ask that you yourself, and at the least ten thousand of your men await further orders here, and that for the next two moons, the Reach continues to provide. Take that into account in your review.”

“I shall begin with the arrangements at once, your grace,” Baelor grinned, as he took his seat.

“Griff, bring in Lord Redwyne.” Griff stood and limped toward the entrance. Soon, guards led Paxter Redwyne into the tent, to stand in front of the circle. By now, the man seemed truly broken, no doubt the earlier trials had the exact effect on him that Jon expected they would, he could read it clearly from Redwyne’s face.

“Lord Redwyne,” Jon said sternly, “Do you know who I am?”

Lord Redwyne nodded.

“Do you recognise who I am?” Jon pressed.

“You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Redwyne said, “You are the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Jon allowed himself a smile. That talk with Redwyne, no matter how much it seemed a waste of time at the time, now seemed to have been necessary.

“The crown reviewed your case, Lord Redwyne,” Jon said, “We found you innocent of treason, my Lord. We found you guilty of stupidity, greed, blind vengeance, self-righteousness, arrogance... These are no crimes my Lord, but they aren’t the qualities we value either. I would have you understand that; and remember this lesson for the rest of your days.”

Redwyne bowed, Jon could see that the man was lost for words.

“Lord Redwyne, swear your fealty to House Targaryen.”

He did.

“And now, I must ask you to swear your fealty to Hightower, as your liege and paramount.”

He did that too, he didn’t even seem to hesitate. Jon was glad to see that – this was one of his worries, albeit not the biggest by far. Those were yet to come, the first now imminent.

“If I learned anything in the past days, it is that marriage is the best way to secure an alliance, and further one’s interests.”

They all looked at him then, even Lord Paxter who by now stood straight once more.

“I mean to propose one such as that,” Jon said calmly, “I mean to follow Lord Leyton’s example. He saw the need to ensure a strong bond existed between the Arbor and Hightower.”

Once more, he could see from the corner of his eye the same scene, Arya tugging at Sansa’s sleeve, Sansa calming her. Gods, Arya was impatient.

“I don’t mean to marry you off, Arya,” Jon grinned, “Calm down.” He raised his hand to prevent any response as his eyes turned back to Lord Redwyne once more.

“I hear your daughter Desmera is an intelligent young woman, Lord Paxter, who advocates for peace between the two houses,” he said, “And I know that Lord Baelor is in need of a wife. The crown will not order it, I ask for your agreement if you can give it.”

Tyrion Lannister grinned, eyebrows raised. He enjoyed this, Jon realised, much more than Jon himself did. Jon didn’t enjoy this. He waited for Lord Paxter’s answer quite impatiently, in fact. Lord Baelor looked surprised, albeit, Jon could see the amusement shining in his eyes. His brother merely seemed relieved; Jon found.

“I agree,” Redwyne said then, and Jon’s eyes returned to him. “I agree,” he repeated, turning toward Lord Baelor, reaching out his hand.

“Will Desmera agree,” Jon asked, “I don’t mean to condemn her into a marriage against her will.”

“Desmera likes nowhere better than at Hightower,” Lord Redwyne remarked, “She talks holes into my stomach about it. She finds Lord Baelor the funniest man she’s known, and she believes life should be all about fun and books. She wanted to be a Hightower when she was a child, so she could become a necromancer herself.”

Jon chuckled, like many of the others did. “Is that true?” Jon asked Humfrey.

“It is,” Humfrey recalled, “She kept nagging me to teach her when she was a girl.”

Jon’s eyes turned to Lord Baelor. He couldn’t read Baelor’s face, though he could tell that Baelor didn’t seem angry to find himself in his trap. Finally, he stood, and took Redwyne’s arm.

Jon let out a deep breath he just realised he held.

“If only all our problems could be resolved this amicably,” he remarked. “Griff, Gendry is next.”

Arya’s eyes grew wide at hearing the name, watching the boy walk in. By then Redwyne sat, and Jon pointed for Gendry to stand in the circle. The boy was definitely confused at the scene he found himself in.

“You better get used to it, Gendry,” Jon smiled, but that caused even more confusion in the boy’s eyes.

“Lord Tyrion, if I may ask for your assistance,” Jon said, and Tyrion jumped from the chair, while he continued, “Gendry here has fought in the war, ever since it began. We have Gendry to thank for the thousands of dragonglass weapons supplied, for training the northern smiths. I also have Gendry to thank for my fine armour, albeit most of you have not seen it because he’s a shit squire.”

The faces turned to smiles, even Gendry’s. Good, he seemed more comfortable now, at least.

“Most importantly,” Jon continued, “Gendry is Robert Baratheon’s bastard son. There are no Baratheons who survived the wars, Gendry is the closest to a Baratheon. Therefore the crown decided to reward him for his service, and his unwavering loyalty, by legitimising him and granting him his father’s name. Lord Tyrion, please assist Gendry Baratheon to swear his fealty to House Targaryen.”

“Gladly,” Tyrion bowed. Jon leaned back in his chair, watching Tyrion ‘work’. He was kind to the boy, Jon found, asking him to kneel, repeat the words, then rise.

“Gendry Baratheon, the crown confirms you Lord of Storm’s End,” Jon said kindly, for the first time a smile on his face he didn’t need to force to give. Gendry clearly didn’t believe it at first, but then, looking around, seeing the smiling faces of all of them, and especially the grin on Arya’s, his mouth turned into a wide grin.

“It is responsibility, Gendry,” Jon remarked, “The Stormlands are one of only two kingdoms we can count on to supply the rest during the coming winter, and one of those bordering Dorne. We know nothing about the situation in Dorne, which I’ll speak of later. What I’m saying is, you’ll find little joy in your lordship this coming winter.”

“Aye, Ser Davos said we are fucked,” Gendry remarked, and Lord Baelor burst out laughing, along with Lord Tyrion.

“I’d ask Ser Davos to accompany you to Storm’s End,” Jon looked at the old knight.

“Gladly, your grace,” Davos nodded.

“I know not what kind of welcome you can expect, but I presume they won’t be too hostile, after all, you’re not sent by Cersei Lannister,” Jon said. “Ser Davos, look into completing the same accounts that I asked from the Westerlands and the Reach. Gendry, take a seat, you are now part of this Council.”

Jon sipped from his cup, and sipped again.

“Tormund,” Tormund stood, walking to the circle, and Jon smiled as he shook his head.

“I have no Lordship to give you, my friend,” he said.

“I ask for none,” Tormund said, “I’ve been elected by the freefolk just two days past. That’s enough for me, more than enough.”

“Tell us of your findings, Tormund,” Jon asked.

“We rode up on the mountain pass where you told me,” Tormund began, “climbed where we could no longer ride. We didn’t get too near, we couldn’t, or we don’t return in time, but that stone castle atop the mountain has been taken. Its towers were burned.”

“Any survivors,” Jon asked.

“Not found any,” Tormund shook his head, “But again, we’ve not searched much, we had no time.”

“I’d have you return and search,” Jon declared, “Everywhere. If there are survivors, they’ll need help, to learn that the war is over, they’ll be starving possibly. Lead them down the mountains to join the camps. And,” he glanced at Sansa, “I want you to report if you find Robyn Arryn. I doubt you will, but we’ve seen miracles these past days.”

Tormund returned to his seat.

“Griff,” Jon looked at Connington at the entrance, “There is only one left.”

Griff nodded.

This one took longer, but finally, Lord Edmure Tully walked into the tent.

“Welcome, Lord Edmure,” Jon said, “I am pleased to see you once more.”

Arya and Sansa were both stunned.

“I am pleased to see you,” Edmure said, “your grace,” he added after a moment of pause, catching himself.

“Do you know who I am, Lord Edmure,” Jon asked.

“I’ve been told,” Edmure’s answer was hesitant, and Jon wondered if the cause was not knowing for certain, or his years in the cells of the Freys.

“Do you recognise who I am?”

“Say it,” Lord Tyrion added, but Jon waved him to silence. He found waving was actually quite effective. No wonder why Lord Baelor preferred it.

“You are Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” Edmure said, “I’ve been told. You must be the new king then. What I know is your men saved my survivors, he led them,” he pointed at Tormund, “and you ordered them to protect us. I am grateful.”

Jon nodded, “I hope your wife and son arrived safely with you, Lord Edmure,” Jon nodded. “I hope Lord Baelor will extend his hospitality to them and your people.”

“That goes without asking, your grace,” Baelor nodded.

“I also ask, Lord Edmure, that you swear fealty to House Targaryen, now,” Jon said.

Edmure looked around, before his eyes settled on Arya who nodded. Then he went down on one knee, and swore.

Jon sighed of relief, albeit he was still not done, he knew. It went easy so far, fealties, confirmations of lordships and lands… this was almost nothing compared to what else he planned.

“Lord Edmure,” Jon said once Edmure Tully stood straight again, “You are Lord of Riverrun. I hope you had chance to rest, because I would have you take sufficient amount of men and return to the Riverlands. You are Lord of Riverrun, the same orders will be given to you as were to all the lords present. Take account of the losses, your dead and your winter supplies, and report to the crown in no later but two turns of the moon. Lord Redwyne shall provide you with the men you need.” Jon’s eyes were already on Redwyne as he said it, but Redwyne nodded in agreement without hesitation. He even pointed at the empty seat next to him, for Edmure to sit.

“Yara Greyjoy,” Jon called. Yara stood, her face somewhat smug. Jon realised that she probably expected to be asked to swear.

“No reaving, raiding or raping,” Jon remarked, “None of it.”

“None,” Yara answered.

“You vow to respect the integrity of the Kingdoms, both North and South.”

“I do,” she answered.

“And I confirm that House Targaryen recognises you as Queen of the Iron Islands, and the integrity of the Iron Islands,” Jon declared. “I ask that the Queen in the North does the same.”

Sansa glanced at Jon, before her eyes settled on Theon.

“There’ll be no more raids, none of it,” She repeated.

“No more,” Yara repeated.

“The North recognises the integrity of the Iron Islands,” Sansa declared promptly. Jon wondered what could’ve transpired in Sansa’s mind, whether she expected it. Or she expected the same for the North hence she was so willing. Soon he’ll find that out, as well.

“I ask that the Iron Fleet complete the task of ferrying the Golden Company to Essos,” Jon said. All heads turned toward him in suprrise, but he ignored it. “Afterwards, I ask that the Iron Fleet ferry the Northern refugees back to Westeros from Dragonstone.”

“It shall be done, your grace,” Yara agreed, without question.

“Your grace,” Jon’s eyes were now firmly on Sansa. “Please remain seated, your grace.” He could see relief rushing through her features. No, he didn’t mean to trap her in some kind of plot.

“The North is an independent kingdom,” Jon said then, “We recognised it and recognise it again, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North. There are no Seven Kingdoms anymore, there’s only North and South, and we wish to be recognised as such. The South shall remain under the rule of the crown. Under House Targaryen. I ask for your recognition of the same.”

Their eyes met. Jon wondered what could be read in hers, a hundred of different emotions, possibly. Pride, perhaps.

“I recognise the Kingdom of the South,” she declared, “And the rule of House Targaryen.”

“There,” Jon sighed, “I am glad we resolved the integrity crisis, however there are some territorial matters which I mean to swiftly address, before we turn our attention to our most burning problems.”

“Lord Edmure,” he called once more, “There is a part of the Riverlands that I believe is heavily contested.”

“The Frey lands,” Edmure remarked, “Frey had dozens of sons.”

“Yes, he was productive in the bedchamber,” Jon remarked, “If only he was half as productive as Lord of the Twins, the late Walder Frey.”

Jon ignored the muted laughters he could hear.

“For at least as long as he lived, the crossing at The Twins had been a constant source of issues, I understand from Lord Tyrion. Is that true?”

“He extorted whatever he wanted in return for a crossing,” Edmure remarked, “He demanded Robb Stark’s betrothal to one of his daughters for the northern armies to cross. But he also taxed the peasants who crossed, then he taxed them again on their return journey. My father ordered him regularly to stop it, to no avail.”

“That will end,” Jon said sternly, “The Twins are the only major crossing across the Trident, and therefore the link between North and South, we cannot afford such foolish greed. Thank goodness for the outstanding productivity of Late Walder, we also find ourselves rather ill-equipped to even count his possible heirs, let alone name one. That includes your lady wife, Lord Edmure, dozenth daughter of Late Walder, I believe.”

“Eighteenth,” Edmure said with a slight grin.

Good, Jon thought, at least he found it funny.

“The Crown retains the lands that once belonged to Late Walder,” Jon decreed, “They’ll be neutral lands, under your supervision, Lord Edmure. Any taxes collected on those lands no longer belong to the Twins, but belong to the crown, and the crown will be responsible to maintain The Twins as suitable point to cross. See to it that no such foolishness occurs as unlawful taxation at crossing, crossing should be free for all.”

“What about lawful taxation of goods at crossing,” Edmure asked.

“Forget it,” Jon’s answer was swift, “We will not erect a taxing post between North and South, if we won’t tax goods, the North shall stop taxing goods I hope, which could help establish amicable relations and boost economy. Come spring, I hope we’ll be able to build up the twins to a more appropriate post between the two kingdoms, the Gods know it’s but a ruin, it barely stands. I’ll task you with the responsibilities relating to this, Lord Edmure, see to it that you don’t disappoint.”

Edmure bowed his head in acceptance. He didn’t find it as funny anymore, but Jon didn’t really care. This was something he knew he wanted to do, for a very long time.

“Griff, do you remember the first time you saw me,” he asked, a slight grin forming in the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” Griff laughed, “You came atop a dragon, while the company marched past Harrenhal. You taunted Strickland, and all of us, waving at us with a grin.”

“That’s when I learned of the Golden Company,” Jon explained to the rest of the assembly, “Our armies were dispersed in the marshes of the Neck, awaiting the army of the dead, and I went to scout. That’s also when I first thought of this, about The Twins, when I saw what a miserable state it was in.”

He sighed, as his moment of informality faded.

“The crown will also retain control of the Vale,” he said, “While we search for Robyn Arryn, first of all. Should the crown become satisfied that Lord Arryn has fallen…” He sighed once more.

“Just say it,” Sansa said lowly.

“The Lord of the Vale traditionally owes fealty to the crown,” Jon finished his sentence, “There, I said it. Should the Queen in the North be found the rightful heir, it will not change this state of affairs. I want you to understand, the crown will withhold your recognition unless you accept its overlordship over the Vale.”

“Oath of fealty,” Sansa remarked.

“For the Vale,” Jon added. Sansa sighed.

“It is not something urgent to resolve today,” she said.

“No, it is not,” Jon gave her a smile, “But it had to be said. There are more urgent matters, I agree. For example, winter supplies.”

“In two moon’s time, we shall have a clear view of where we stand, I ask you all to report to Lord Tyrion, who’ll oversee the collection of reports, and assist as he can with supplying those in need. However,” Jon sighed once more, “Transportation is a problem. It’s a problem to Casterly Rock, as it is to the Eyrie, and definitely to the North. The longer the supply lines, the harsher the climate, the harder it’ll be for us to maintain supply. Daenerys and I decided to avoid this by offering the North, the Vale, Riverlands, Westerlands to move their survivors closer, south of Harrenhal. This camp shall move to Harrenhal, along with the Redwyne and Hightower forces retained in camp. I expect five thousand of Redwyne’s and ten thousand of Hightower’s present. I also expect builders from the Reach and the Stormlands, we need to establish more suitable accommodation. We need to clear those lands as well, from any corpses and whatnot that may remain.”

“While I can order southerners to abide by this, I cannot order the Queen in the North,” Jon sighed, “It is your choice, Sansa. The Iron Fleet will return to Dragonstone in no later but a moon’s turn, and ferry your people to where you tell them. You can have them return to the North, but supply lines North the Twins will become your responsibility, and if they fail and supplies don’t reach you, you get snowed in, roads wash away or freeze, temperatures fall too low in the northern winter, we cannot assist.”

“What about supply by sea,” Arya asked.

“Tie down ships that could aid us in maintaining trade, and thus gaining more supplies,” Jon countered, “Those ships can make a difference if used in trade, Arya. I’d rather have all those in need to remain in the south, where the weather is milder, and supply is easier, much easier.”

“It’s quite a desperate move,” Tyrion remarked.

“I am a man of desperate moves,” Jon smirked, “and radical ones, I suppose. We need to bind together, I told you all. We need to help each other. The maesters foreshadowed a long winter, the coldest in a hundred years, we are not ready, either because supplies have been lost, or because supplies will have to be shared and divided. We need to limit the impact of that somehow.”

“And while the people of the North resided on southern land,” Sansa asked, “who’ll be their leader? Whose laws should they follow?”

“They have a Queen,” Jon remarked, wondering what the relevance of the question was. “You led the northern camp since Winterfell. I understand that there was overall command, but that was war. This is peacetime, there’ll be no overall command, instead I propose a council, led by Tyrion Lannister. He’s good with the paperwork I’m told. It’ll include Lord Baelor, Gendry, Ser Jaime – Lord Jaime, excuse me – Tormund, Queen Sansa and Queen Daenerys. Any matter not resolved locally shall be petitioned for attention by the council, and any matters relating to more than one jurisdiction shall be decided by the council.”

“As I said,” Tyrion said lowly, “Desperate measures.”

“It’s not a must, Sansa,” Jon said instead, ignoring Tyrion, “You can try and take them home, and if the weather turns later, move them south only then. I can only recommend not to do that; the evacuation took weeks to complete. It’s not an easy task to move that many people.”

“It’s not an easy task to house them, either,” Tyrion remarked.

“We have thousands of Dothraki huts,” Daenerys spoke, “Unusual I know, but they are warm and much more durable than tents, we have more of them on Dragonstone, the people reside in them now.”

“We shall also look into what we can build,” Jon added, “Hence I asked for builders.”

“You ask that people live in huts for years during winter,” Lord Edmure said.

“It’s better than living among ruins, cut off from help and supplies during winter,” Jon countered. “In any case, for the south, this is an order. The Queen in the North decides at her discretion, we don’t require a decision at this gathering. As I said, the option is there, any time during the winter. If not taken, supplies will be taken to the Twins.”

Jon grabbed his cup, but found it was already empty. This was a long, tiresome meeting, it gave him a headache. What was left to discuss gave him a headache, he mused.

“For reasons I can’t disclose, the Golden Company is bound to return to Essos, for what we hope to be a short absence,” Jon said. “You must also be aware, while we executed traitors, the extent of the plot against us remains unexplored. I am sure you all heard the Spider’s claim of what his plans were, and judging by your faces, you believed just as little of it as we did.”

“We can’t let it remain unknown,” Jon said coldly, “I mean to get to the bottom of it. I’ve just found the perfect companion for me to do so before this gathering.”

Some of them began to look around, but soon they saw, Jon’s eyes were settled on Humfrey Hightower. “That is, if you are willing to accompany me and the Golden Company to Essos, Humfrey. I find you possess certain skills that I lack.”

His eyes lit up once more. Jon was right, he concluded – Humfrey Hightower was indeed the free spirit more keen on adventure than settling with a crown.

“What about…” Lord Baelor began, but Jon raised his hand.

“It requires the crown’s blessing, Lord Baelor,” he said, “In any case, I believe I addressed every piece of that matter earlier, all of you got what you needed or wanted. I have need of your brother, Lord Baelor. Besides those who came from Essos, only he and Lord Reed could assist me, and we all know that Lord Reed is not able to do so. That leaves Humfrey.”

Jon didn’t look at Sansa. This is the part where she is most likely to become furious, he told himself.

“If Humfrey agrees to accompany me,” Jon repeated, watching as Humfrey Hightower’s desperate eyes settled on Sansa. She must’ve nodded finally, but it took quite a time. Jon still didn’t dare to look, scolding himself in his mind for being such a coward.

“I agree,” Humfrey said, desperately trying to hide his excitement.

“Are you all clear with what has been agreed, ordered here,” he asked. Lord Tyrion said Aye, and slowly the word began to travel around, repeated by each one by one.

“Good,” he remarked, “We have a way forward then. I remind you all, you are bound by your words, the oaths you swore and agreements you made, orders you accepted. It is time we began to live by our words, my friends, the past years have shown us clearly what happens when we forget that our words matter, and neglect our duties, responsibilities and vows.” He looked around at their faces, as they all nodded.

“There is one more matter,” Jon sighed. “The last one.”

He stood from his chair and walked to the clearing.

“Are you in agreement with everything said today,” he asked Daenerys.

“I am.”

“Then I’ve done all I hoped to do,” Jon smiled a tired smile, “And there is only one more thing left for me to do.” He went down on one knee, laying Blackfyre in front of him, and swore his oath of fealty to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such an insomniac night... here's a chapter as dry as insomnia can make one to be 😂😂😂  
> I guess this chapter confirmed much of the ending, finally, and gave some answers & once more, I hope I did it justice. It's not yet the 'last' chapter of the 'main story' FYI... It's a Jon-style setting out of his elaborate plans, once they're in motion and in a way that is best to ensure they work out.
> 
> Ps- in the show Cerwyne says "winter is here, if the maesters are right it'll be the coldest in a hundred years..." and I took that, because it made sense with the dead coming. Based on that statement, I didn't like how winter came and went, despite that forecast (I guess their meteorologists were British lol), 4 episodes later first flower sparked beyond the wall and moreover, despite Winterfell an ice-dragon destroyed ruin, Sansa has been crowned in a perfectly intact Winterfell hall... {insert facepalm here} I made it as desperate as I possibly could instead.


	82. The Iron Throne VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note to confirm, anything that follows is according to the original story - None of the comments received made an impact on it. I say this because comments either state you know ALL the ending or made suggestions for different endings, not happy with the one that began to unfold - no one figured out ALL of the ending (which I'm glad for!) and I've decided to go ahead with it, because I still believe it's the right ending - and it leads to my epilogue which is quite a thing to come and will change the ending anyways.

*****

The first pair of eyes that met his were Sansa’s, as Jon looked up. Once more he wondered what kind of emotions he could read in them, once more arriving at the acceptance of the fact that he could not read them. But he didn’t see pride this time, instead, he saw sadness.

He looked up at Daenerys, just as she stood.

“Long live the Queen,” Jon said, nodding toward her.

“Long live the Queen!” The Lords shouted. No surprise, but he couldn’t hear Arya or Sansa’s voice among them. They didn’t have anything to do with praising a Queen foreign to their kingdom, after all. Jon hoped that the rest of the summit will work out just as well as his part did, as Dany took a few steps closer to him. He didn’t move from his knees. That was the agreement.

“I’ve never seen a man more capable than my nephew,” she said, her voice soft, soothing, even reassuring, and the tent silenced completely. “I am certain I never will. For a long time, I believed that I am the last of my bloodline, that it shall die with me. It was the force behind me once, I came as a conqueror to retake what my family lost, before the Targaryen name fades into memory.”

Jon took a deep breath, as he listened. No such speech was agreed to be part of the plan for today. Dany and he went through it multiple times, in great detail, discoursed the order of matters to address and how is best to address them, down to the detail of fealty to House Targaryen, the crown, or the fact that agreements between them were to be announced as such. But no speeches were agreed upon about him. He wondered now why Dany didn’t continue with the plan. He wondered, hoping it’ll work out, finding himself lacking in trust once more.

You should learn to trust again, he told himself. If you ever knew how to trust, and if not, you should learn it now, more than ever.

“I thank you for your service, Jon,” she said, and Jon looked up, straight into her eyes. He saw nothing but calm and content in them. “Without you, we would not be here today. I thank you for defying all of us when that was needed, for leading us, for fighting for us, giving your life for ours.”

Jon looked around, to see them all nodding. He even saw Redwyne nodding, not that Redwyne could’ve known anything of what Dany could be referring to.

“I also thank you,” Dany sighed, “For teaching me how to rule, Jon. I came as a conqueror, not a ruler. You thought me a great many lessons, some to my liking, and some less so, but all of them necessary. I can see that now. Thank you.”

Part of him began to worry, while the other half of his mind began to try and reassure him, there was nothing to worry about, as he watched her looking around.

“Jon Targaryen, I name you my heir,” she said, before her eyes returned to Jon, “And my regent.”

No. This was not what they agreed, definitely not.

“The line of succession should be clear, should I become unable, incapacitated or absent in any way, the Kingdom of the South should be yours, and your heirs to come.” She turned away from him, her violet eyes once more looking around, taking in the faces around them. “My nephew is my equal, an order from him is an order from the crown, which you all are sworn to obey,” her eyes settled on Sansa, “And to respect.”

Jon could see her hand motioning for him to rise, so he did, and stepped back from the clearing. He was begging inside that at the least, she follows the rest of the plan. He just gave her what she wanted, and she just gave it back. Jon couldn’t understand why. Looking at Tyrion Lannister, he concluded that he wasn’t alone.

She stepped in front of Sansa then.

“Your grace,” she said. “We have our differences, you and I. We cannot hold on to them if we want our people to survive this winter.”

Thank the Gods, Jon sighed. Be humble, Dany, be humble, like we agreed you’ll be, and she’ll be the same, Jon urged silently.

“I vow, that the crown shall respect, continue to respect the integrity of the North, while your people reside with us, and I honestly hope you’ll accept our offer for you and your people to stay with us,” Dany said, “They shall be treated as our own, provided for and protected, as we agreed today. Let bygones be bygones between us and our peoples, we all need to bind together, and you and I shall lead by good example.”

Sansa looked at Arya, at Jon, and Jon watched, keenly, impatiently waiting for her reaction as Daenerys reached out her hand. He watched as Sansa stood, her eyes on the hand offered. Then she took the arm, and Jon exhaled the air trapped in his lungs.

“The past is in the past, your grace,” Sansa said, “We should look to the future and to build a better one for our peoples.”

Someone clapped, Jon’s eyes followed the noise to see Lord Tyrion eagerly clapping his hand. Others joined in, soon the whole tent was clapping. Jon’s eyes found Griff’s beside him.

“If it was more amicable, they’d jump to bed,” Griff whispered with a grin, causing Jon to chuckle, swallow the laughter that came in relief after his worries disappeared to the rhythm of the applause. He watched as the queens gave each other a smile, before Sansa sat back in his chair.

“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys turned, “I confirm you Hand of the Queen, once more.” Tyrion Lannister went on his knees, hand on heart, then stood. Dany walked back to her chair and sat, as regal as if it was the throne itself, Jon thought. He wondered if Dany thought the same, if she thought of the throne. If she was ready for what they agreed.

“As there has been a council nominated, there is no need to form a Small Council. Most of our focus will be on supplying all our peoples during the winter, and matters thus will be decided by the council nominated. There are roles however which I would like to assign today.”

“Lord Baelor, I name you Master of Coin,” Dany smiled. “Jon and I agreed that your experience in trade and managing a city such as Old Town would be highly beneficial in this role.”

“Ser Davos,” her eyes travelled to the Old Knight, “I must admit that I am quite uncertain at this moment which Kingdom you wish to be subject of, Ser, however Jon and I believe that the South would greatly benefit from your experience, in the role of Master of Ships, should you accept it.”

Jon nodded toward Davos with a smile, as the old knight leaned back in his chair. “I accept, your grace,” he said, before he returned to Jon’s smile.

“Jon spoke truly when he admitted, that we are weak, ravaged by wars,” Dany said then, “we are easy prey. That is why we find that we have need of a Master of War, and we name Lord Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime Lannister nodded his acceptance. Jon wondered whether they were all in some kind of shock, or trance, it went further easier than when he spoke. He began to wonder where it will go wrong.

“Samwell Tarly,” Daenerys spoke, and Jon’s eyes followed her as they settled on Sam. Sam seemed somewhat taken aback, sadness, confusion, relief sitting in plain sight on his face. “I understand that you’ll be confirmed as Lord of Horn Hill by your liege,” Dany smiled a warm smile to Sam.

“He sure will, your grace,” Baelor added.

“I also understand that the confirmation means that you’ll be unable to complete your training in the Citadel, unfortunately,” Dany continued, “However, we both believe that it would be unfortunate if you abandoned your learning, and instead, should focus on the laws and customs of the realm, to serve as our Master of Laws.”

OUR – there it was again. Jon wondered if he was imagining it, and it was merely calculated, to voice how much he and Daenerys agreed and came up with this all together.

“The crown will not name a Master of Whisperers,” Dany declared, “There’s been more than enough whispers for our taste. Men should speak their mind instead of whispering in the shadows.”

Loud “Aye” filled the tent as they voiced their agreement.

“You forgot to speak of Dorne,” Dany smiled at Jon.

“Gods, I knew I am forgetting something,” Jon laughed.

“It’s the whole south of Westeros,” Tyrion remarked, “Would be quite useful if we figured out what’s going on there.”

“Jon hasn’t really forgotten, either,” Dany countered, “He just means to avoid plaguing this gathering with insecurities, I believe.”

She turned back to Jon, “Jon will sail to Essos with the Golden Company,” she said, “And they’ll try to find Quentyn Martell. He’s the rightful heir to Dorne, it seems the best solution to confirm him as such and bring him to the fold, and we shall make overtures to Sunspear to see what response we receive in the meantime.”

Jon nodded, it was what they intended, only, he actually did forget to mention it in the end.

“There is one more thing, before we conclude this gathering,” Dany said then.

Here it comes, Jon told himself.

“I would ask you all to please, follow me,” she said. Jon stepped aside from the entrance. His hand caught the sleeve of Baelor Hightower’s overcoat as they were leaving, “I think we could use some more wine, Lord Baelor,” he whispered.

“I agree, your grace,” Baelor grinned. Baelor was in celebratory mood, for sure, that grin sat on his face way more times than not by the time the summit neared its end.

They walked for a short while, out of the camp and to the rocks where Jon favoured to hold his ‘private’ meetings. There, Baelor’s guards caught up with them, handing them cups, filling those cups with the fine red. “Actually, it’s Arbor wine,” Baelor remarked, glancing at Redwyne. “It is the finest,” he added, to Redwyne’s grin.

“That, it is,” Tyrion Lannister remarked as he tasted it.

Daenerys turned toward the gathering, cup in her hand.

“Perhaps we should make a toast,” she said. The sun already began its journey to disappear beyond the horizon, the pale violet of the sky mirrored her eyes. Behind her, on the other side of Blackwater Bay, stood an eerily silent reminisce of the Red Keep, it’s towers still standing reaching high into the sky.

“This city has been founded by Aegon the Conqueror,” she said, “He built the keep behind me for his descendants, and in it, he sat on a chair of swords that once belonged to his defeated enemies.”

“When I was a child, I admired the notion of it,” she continued, “I wanted nothing as much as to once sit on it as its ruler, to reclaim it. Jon told me, while we made our plans, that he believes it was wrong for Aegon to immortalise his conquests this way. He said, every time a man looked at their king sitting on the Iron Throne, they must’ve thought of their own fallen ancestors whose swords their king sat upon.”

“It’s hard to build trust with such a reminder, I agree,” she said. “We are not here to rebuild what’s been before. We, all of us here, are part of something new, and we shall build a new world, fair and just. Our new world has no need of such reminders to men of who we are, if it did, then we already failed. Those are Jon’s words, and I find myself in agreement with them.”

The wind picked up, Jon watched as the two dragons flew past above them, straight for the keep. He watched as Daenerys took a deep breath and turned toward the keep.

She waited, for long moments. Jon knew, she needed that time for herself, to say goodbye to a part of herself. She’s told him that she didn’t feel it to be her anymore, but Jon knew, it was not easy to part with one’s life. It took him a very long time to part with his.

“Dracarys,” she cried out.

The dragons attacked the Red Keep. They kicked at the towers, while they breathed fire at the keep, and even more so, at the middle of it between the towers. Where the throne hall stood, Jon knew, albeit he’s never seen it. He never wanted to see the Iron Throne, he knew that for a while now, he felt no loss whatsoever. But Dany must’ve felt different, he knew, as he stepped beside her.

The dragons continued their destruction, before they began to shriek. “They found it,” she whispered, raising her teary gaze to meet Jon’s.

“I know,” he said, forcing a smile on his face for her. They watched as the dragons breathed fire, at the same spot among the ruins, again and again and again. They melted the Iron Throne, Jon knew.

“The Iron Throne, forged in the fire of Balerion the Dread,” Tyrion said aloud, and the both turned to him, all of them did. “Melted in the fire of Drogon and Rhaegal, the last two dragons of this world. It is fitting,” he said, before he sipped from his cup, only realising then that all their eyes were on him.

“To the new world,” he declared aloud, raising his cup high.

“To the new world,” they all said, and drank.

Jon studied their tired, reminiscing faces.

“Thank you all for joining us today,” he said, “I believe rest is due for all of us.”

They all silently dispersed.

*****

Jon sat on the stone, watching the sunrise. He wondered why he never did such a thing before – from atop the wall, he could’ve looked to the East and see at least part of it.

The phenomenon amazed him. The colours as they changed, how light took over the darkness of the night, it reached deep inside him so profoundly, he couldn’t have put it into words to give it justice. Not that he considered himself a man of words.

There was another side to it, he knew. Excitement. It stood in front to lead a great mass of emotions he felt after the summit the day before.

He was fearful, at first that was the main emotion that ruled him, as he walked the camps, unable to fathom how they could look completely the same as the night before. The night before, he had plans. Last night, he was past executing those plans.

He wanted to think that he was no fool, he knew well that nothing was certain of his plans. He gained agreements, oaths – words, in a world where everyone lied when it suited them.

But on the other hand, he gained something. He felt that for the first time in a very long time, if not ever, he made the decisions he wanted to make, without excusing himself for doing so.

What makes a good ruler? Jon thought a lot about it these past days. He tried to recount the rules he knew of, and take their examples.

There was Cersei Lannister, the Mad Queen. She didn’t care who lived or died under her rule, and expected everyone to serve her interests at the detriment of their own, to sacrifice whatever she demanded them to sacrifice. Redwyne and Hightower both sought a way out, they were both pushed to defect to the opposite side because the demand was too high – they knew it was their lives, and the survival of their families. On the other hand, she had just as little care for whatever strives boiled between them, as she did for the welfare of the people in the city, or anywhere else.

Jon draw the lesson from it, that a good ruler finds a balance. There’s no ruling without authority – without it, it’s not ruling at all. If the ruler cannot make decisions, then they are not a ruler. But there’s a balance – it’s a give and take. Just as authority doesn’t mean complete disregard, serving doesn’t mean selfless subservience to the will of the people. They have to receive, while they give.

Besides, Jon remarked, there’s no such thing as “will of the people”. Those who know what they want will not want the same thing, they’ll want what’s good for them. In truth, the will of the people is a countless wills of people instead. And they all have to receive something they need – not necessarily what they want, as long as they can recognise that they needed what they received.

Jon didn’t know much about Tommen Baratheon, except that the boy was a sheep. In his mind, he’s put the boy into the same category as Robert Baratheon. They were Kings. They didn’t rule. The reason for this was the same as much as Jon could tell. The Stag king had no interest in ruling, no matter how strong willed a character he may have been, and thus those around him hungry for power could flourish, twisting the position of the ruler to serve their own interests. While the boy perhaps wanted to rule, he was weak, and the end result was essentially the same – someone else grabbed the authority of the ruler, twisted it to serve their own interests.

There was yet another category – Jon listed Joffrey Baratheon as well as his grandfather the Mad King in it. People who were unsuitable by nature and should’ve never been given power to rule. People who were tyrants, who didn’t see that it was a give and take, who weren’t willing to give. There was a lesson in it, and it wasn’t the obvious fact that the ruler should not be a cruel sadistic madman. It was the same lesson he concluded at the start, ruling is a give and take.

That’s what he’s told Dany. For two days and nights, they talked about it. Or more like, Jon talked at Dany, who listened, and quite unusually for her, didn’t offer much in return. Like a maester tutoring a child, Jon tried to explain his thoughts, what he’s learned. Perhaps that was what Dany referred to as teaching her about ruling. Jon couldn’t tell, he didn’t ask her.

He didn’t talk to any of them. He figured, he’ll give them the night to allow it all to settle, and then he’ll talk to them, listen to their concerns – hoping there won’t be any, knowing that hope was futile – before he returns to Dany for one final talk.

It had to be final, at least for the moment. Jon already gave the order to prepare for leaving, he won’t be spending another night on land. Not that it felt like he gained what he originally hoped to gain – no, Dany denied him that, his freedom. Heir. Regent. He was de facto king of the Southern kingdom he established the day before; he wasn’t a free man. He didn’t feel the weight of the duties and responsibilities rolling off his shoulders, they were only joined by new ones.

He couldn’t understand why she did this. They talked about it, multiple times in fact. Jon wanted to go away. He wanted to find out who threatened his life, the life of the only family he’s had on his father’s side, he wanted to get to the bottom of it. But Dany wasn’t afraid to point out that it wasn’t his only reason to leave. That was true. He wanted to leave, as cold and selfish it seemed to be, leaving everyone to deal with the aftermath of the war he fought. He convinced himself; and thought that he convinced Daenerys that it was the right thing to do. He didn’t want any more sacrifices made for him. And, to be honest, he wanted to be free. He was not free.

“Your grace,” Tyrion Lannister called out. The day was beginning, this was not a chance encounter, but another meeting he arranged to take place in the privacy of the open.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon smiled, “Join me, if you please.”

“Are we going to watch the sunrise together,” Tyrion chuckled.

“There aren’t many moments in life, Lord Tyrion, that make someone to pause and appreciate them,” Jon remarked, “This view is one.”

Tyrion nodded in agreement, and they sat for a while in silence.

“Remember when I told you to get yourself together,” Jon said, “Now’s the time to do it.”

“I know,” Tyrion chuckled, “I’ll have to stop feeling sorry for myself for being unable to figure out the plot.”

“And the blowing up of the city,” Jon added.

“And that, too,” Tyrion agreed.

“You know what I want to accomplish,” Jon said then, “The Queen wants the same. You have talents, Lord Tyrion, put them to use.”

“How did you say it,” Tyrion pretended to think, “Yes, I’m good with the paperwork, that’s what it was.”

“You’re even better at talking,” Jon said, “But I can’t tell them, Lord Tyrion will lead these efforts because he can talk a hole in your stomach and convince you that your mothers weren’t your mothers if he wants to.”

“No, you can’t,” Tyrion laughed.

“Put your true talents to good use, Lord Tyrion,” Jon said, “You’ll need them. They may have been content yesterday, if my previous experience is any indication, they won’t be content tomorrow. Or when the first of the troubles hit them. They won’t be easy to hold together.”

“They would be easier to keep content if they were allowed apart,” Tyrion remarked.

“They’d also be much harder to feed if they were allowed apart,” Jon countered.

“That is true,” Tyrion nodded, “And you want to feed them all.”

“I want to save them all,” Jon corrected.

“You know they won’t be thankful for it,” Tyrion said, as Jon stood.

“When were the people ever thankful for something,” Jon remarked, “I doubt there’s ever been a ruler who was thanked by the people. No, Lord Tyrion. The people forget. That’s because the people are like you and me. We feel we have a right to things; they feel the same. We feel we have a right to be a lord, a king, hold lands… they feel entitled to our support. And to speak true, they are entitled to it. Being thankful is not part of the arrangement.”

“Do you think they will accept her,” Tyrion asked.

“What choice do they have,” Jon shrugged, “It’s not their choice, she’s my heir. Besides, I think she resolved it with her ‘Jon is my regent’ declaration.”

“That surprised you,” Tyrion remarked.

“Did it not surprise you?”

“Oh, everything surprised me yesterday,” Tyrion laughed, “One day you ask me about Lords and lands and borders, how many sons and daughters. The next day I’m presented with this plan. You made me feel utterly useless.”

Jon had to laugh, “You have sensitive feelings, Lord Tyrion.”

“Oh, I do,” Tyrion laughed with Jon, “But I agree with you. That regency claim was good. Almost as good as the burning of the Red Keep.”

“Melting down the Iron Throne,” Jon corrected.

“I never thought she’d do such a thing,” Tyrion said lowly.

“I haven’t either,” Jon said, “But it was her idea. She asked what I thought of the Iron Throne and I told her. Then she said she’ll burn it.”

“Well I give it to her,” Tyrion remarked, “If she’s meant to make a statement of breaking the wheel, she certainly accomplished that.”

*****

“Ser,” Jaime stood at the entrance of the tent, leaning heavily on a stick.

“You should not be on your feet, Ser Jaime,” Brienne stood swiftly from the small table, to help him into the tent. She slowly guided him toward the chair. Jaime watched, quite amused as she rushed around, making her campbed, throwing linens – clothing she wore under that daily armour that he’s never seen – under the blanket, into her saddlebag.

“What can I do for you, Ser Jaime,” she asked, sitting on the bed after she finished.

“The leg,” Jaime began, “It’s not broken, after all. The Hightowers’ maester looked at it, said I better begin walking on a stick, I merely pulled muscles. They need to be worked, he said. He comes at first light and stretches them.”

“I hear much praise for that maester,” Brienne remarked, “The Queen praised him for how he attends to Lord Reed.”

“How is Lord Reed,” Jaime asked lowly.

“Not well,” Brienne explained, “The maester told the Queen that he’s bled internally, in his belly, and muscles have been severed in his legs. His lungs have also taken a nasty stab. The maester gives him milk of the poppy, because he’s put a stick into his lungs, a bamboo stick. That’s to give him air, as I understood.”

Jaime nodded lengthily.

“I’ve been made Lord of Casterly Rock,” he said then.

“The Queen has told me last night,” Brienne smiled. “My congratulations, Ser Jaime. Lord Jaime, forgive me.”

“I find myself lacking as a lord,” Jaime said, his eyes searching hers.

“Lacking?” She was surprised, “You are one of the most honourable men I know. You certainly are not lacking.”

“I am,” Jaime smiled, “So I came to you because I need your help, with the things I am lacking. Because only you can help, Ser Brienne.”

“I don’t understand, my Lord,” Brienne said, even more confused, so Jaime slowly stood with the help of the stick, and then just as slowly, he went down on one knee.

“You see, Ser Brienne,” he said softly, “I am lacking everything a Lord requires, everything but the name. I am lacking a swordarm, a wife, an heir, and I am lacking a friend I can trust to help me. So I came to you, because, I wanted to ask you if you’d be my wife. Be my friend and the the swordarm l lost, the Gods know I’ll need that as well. But mainly, be my wife. I want you to be my wife. I sound idiotic.”

“You certainly don’t sound like a man asking someone to be their wife,” Brienne remarked, faintly attempting to hide her shock.

“I don’t know,” Jaime grinned, “I’ve never asked a woman to be my wife. And you certainly aren’t just any woman. You’re the most magnificent and fascinating living being I can imagine, you’re beautiful inside and out.”

“That’s a lie,” Brienne whispered. “I know what I am, I know what people think when they look at me.”

“I don’t give a shit for what people think when they look at you,” Jaime said firmly, “And frankly, you shouldn’t either, you could beat the shit out of any of them if you wanted to, and I love you. You’re beautiful to me.”

“You mean this,” Brienne asked, starting to believe the scene she’s been made part of.

“I do,” Jaime smiled, “I want you to be my wife, Ser Brienne of Tarth, would you do me the honour and be my wife?”

Brienne just looked at the grinning man kneeling in front of her, sheer disbelief in her eyes. But he nodded, in affirmation of his words, and she found herself laughing. She found that her eyes wanted to cry the happiest tears and her heart wanted to burst open.

“Would you, Brienne,” he whispered, and she nodded, happily.

“I would,” she whispered, taking his face in her palms, “I will.”

*****

Jon walked slowly toward the small clearing, lined by the trees. He watched as the girls looked around in the grass, the peacefulness of it. They were collecting something. Sansa turned, stood up straight. He could see – they were collecting winter flowers. Tiny bouquet of white and violet flowers in her hand, her face calm, her smile sad and knowing, as she waited for him to reach her.

By the time he did, Arya noticed him as well, coming closer. She handed more flowers to Sansa. Jon glanced at them, they looked like little white bells.

“They’re called snowdrops,” she said, “I think they bloom because the weather turned milder.” She took the flowers from Arya, “See this, it’s called honeywort. And these,” she pointed at the violet ones, “These are called alyssum. Ugly name for something so beautiful, they’re little bouquets in themselves.”

“I don’t know anything about flowers,” Jon remarked.

“No, you don’t,” she smiled, “truth be told, you know nothing, really.”

Jon laughed, “I’ve been told that more times than I can count,” he remarked, “I can’t say it’s not true.”

“You’re leaving,” Arya declared, ending the not-so-pleasant pleasantries.

“Aye,” Jon turned toward her, “Don’t have much time.”

“We know,” Sansa’s face turned serious, “We’ve said goodbye to Humfrey already.”

“Have you given him flowers,” Jon remarked, regretting it straight away.

“No,” Sansa hissed. “They are for you.” She pressed the tiny bouquet into his chest.

“I didn’t mean to,” He said lowly, albeit there was no end to the sentence. He didn’t mean a lot of things.

“I know,” Sansa remarked, “You don’t mean a lot of things, and yet you say them, and you do them.”

Jon took a deep breath, “Are you going to bicker with me, because then I should just turn around and leave.”

Arya wrapped her arms around his waist, “You two are unbearable,” she said, “You can’t even say goodbye without arguing.”

“I’m not arguing,” Sansa said, her eyes firmly on Jon.

“Take care of your sister,” Jon said instead, turning to Arya, “Help her to see reason. I’ll return soon.”

“I’m not saying goodbye, Jon,” she laughed, “I’ll be with you aboard that ship to Essos.”

“I know you want to,” Jon smiled, “But I need you here, with Sansa.”

“I think you can’t tell me what to do, Jon,” she stood straight, “In truth, you’re not my king, you’re not my brother either and so you can’t order me around. I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“You really know nothing,” she said, “You don’t even know me anymore.”

Jon stood straight once more, as Arya let go of him.

“Can’t argue with that assessment,” he said lowly, “But I guess you’ll remedy that.”

“If I don’t cut your throat myself when I had enough of your nonsense,” Arya grinned, “But I may not stay with you.”

At that, Jon really didn’t know what to say. “I go get my things,” Arya nodded, and left them, “Try not to kill each other before I return.”

“Charming,” Jon chuckled watching her leave.

“She’s right,” Sansa turned to him once more, “You don’t know us anymore.”

“What is this about,” Jon asked annoyed, “What exactly have I done, now. Go on, spell it out, I’m tired of the word games and the scolding.”

“Well,” she took a deep breath, “You won the war, you made your plans, then you handed all of it to Daenerys and Tyrion Lannister to execute as if they’ve done anything right without you.”

“I wouldn’t have won the war without them,” Jon remarked, “You have to recognise that.”

“I recognise that,” she said, “But they can’t do it without you, you have to recognise that, because I’m not sure they will. Instead you’ll sail away into the sunset.”

“The sunset is on the other side, Sansa,” Jon chuckled.

“This is serious,” she hissed.

“I know it’s serious,” Jon declared, “It’s serious because there are people out there who want me dead, who want to tie Daenerys into some kind of arrangement and gain hold of what is mine and hers and yours, all of ours. I mean to stop it, so perhaps I have reason to leave.”

“So, you are not leaving because you wanted to be free,” she asked.

“She made me her fucking regent,” Jon sighed, “I’ll never be free.”

“Yes, you didn’t expect that,” she smiled, “I saw it on your face. She didn’t go along with your plan. What is the guarantee that she’ll follow the rest of it?”

“Gods,” Jon rolled his eyes, “There’s only so much I can do, I did what I can do.”

“You did,” she whispered, “I give you that. What about the company?”

“Strickland sold them out,” Jon explained, “Cersei paid her debts, sought the Iron Bank’s assistance to hire them, and the Iron Bank did. But Cersei never paid the price, she gave Dragonstone to Strickland. I don’t know the details; I just know that they have much worse coming after them.”

“Worse?”

“Worse than sellswords,” Jon said, “The Iron Bank claims the company owes them. Return to service or they collect the debt. We can’t pay them off, so how do you think they’ll collect the debt?”

“They can’t kill twenty thousand, certainly,” Sansa remarked.

“They can kill Griff, the sergeants, they can do a lot of things,” Jon said, “I don’t know the details, Sansa. It’s not my decision, the sergeants and Griff made the decision not to ask for our help, because we can’t help. They chose to return to service until the debt is paid.”

“That’s honourable,” Sansa remarked.

“Are you mad about the Vale,” Jon asked.

“No,” she smiled, “I knew it, I just don’t want to fall on my knees and swear an oath when Robyn may be out there. I didn’t expect you to hand over more of your own inheritance, Jon. You have rights and I have rights and we all have rights, and yours top mine. I’m fine with that. I was thinking perhaps Arya could swear the oath, if it comes to that, though I’ve not told her yet.”

“Perhaps,” Jon remarked, “Sounds like a solution, I’ve not thought of it.”

“No, you thought I’ll argue,” she hissed, “You respected my rights, and you thought I won’t respect yours. You stepped aside for your heir, who says I can’t step aside for mine.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Jon chuckled, “You’ve always been better at this than me.”

“I am mad at you though,” she said suddenly, “For breaking up my betrothal without telling me.”

“I’ve not broken up your betrothal,” Jon argued.

“No, you just take my betrothed to Essos.” She said, “I needed that alliance.”

“Have I not given you everything you needed,” Jon raised his voice as he spoke, “They can’t just take their ships and sail their supplies North, Sansa! What about the Westerlands, the Vale, the Crownlands! They are to feed all of you, not just the Northerners, there are other people I had to consider, and all you need to do is keep the Northerners south where they have a better chance, the weather is milder, they’ll be easy to reach.”

“And when your Queen and her Hand and his brother, they all oppose me,” Sansa asked, “When we don’t see eye to eye because I’m merely tolerated, and so are my people, who will stand for us, who will mediate for us then?”

Jon sighed. “Like I said, I did the best I could do.”

“You could’ve given your blessing,” she remarked, “While you still had authority. You know what Lord Baelor said? Family matters. We aid our family, that’s what he said.”

Jon turned away, watching as some men dragged a boar out of the woods.

“I wouldn’t have thought there are still animals in these woods,” he remarked, and Sansa turned as well.

“Great,” she said, “The conversation has become uncomfortable, so let’s talk about boars instead.”

“Seven Hells,” Jon hissed, “What do you want me to say?”

“Why didn’t you give your blessing?!”

“Because I don’t like it,” Jon yelled, “There, I said it! I don’t like it.”

“You like him enough to take him with you.”

“It’s not him,” Jon lowered his voice once more, “He’s all right, I suppose, he seems to be. I don’t like the arrangement, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Jon began, searching for words, “I just don’t, Sansa. I don’t like what it does to our kingdoms, I don’t like the threat it turns you into, I don’t like you marrying a man like that.”

“The threat it turns me into,” Sansa repeated, “Lord Baelor told me, he only spoke of his late wife to you a few days ago, and you’d already wed him off.”

“Baelor is no fool,” Jon hissed, “He told me with reason, he knew that I would never wed you off to his heir and name him Paramount. He needs to begin breeding.”

“Oh, he knows,” Sansa chuckled, “He’s not at all unhappy with the new state of affairs. Apparently, Desmera Redwnye is quite to his liking.”

“I figured,” Jon said lowly, “I just hope that somehow Baelor will be to Desmera’s liking.”

“He will be,” Sansa said, “He is, you’ve got that right. At least, that’s what was discussed at supper last night. Baelor supped Redwyne last night.”

“Good,” Jon chuckled, “At least I got something right then. They have to begin working together.”

“They did,” Sansa nodded, “Baelor also confirmed Sam Tarly, you should know. The three of them spoke lengthily about supplies last night. That, and Desmera.”

Jon didn’t respond. At least something worked, from his plans, at least some troubles seem to have been settled.

“When we return,” he sighed, after the long pause to collect his thoughts – or his willpower to say it -, “If you still want to marry him after we returned, I’ll give you my blessing.”

Sansa raised her eyebrow in surprise. “You don’t have the authority, and he’s still Baelor’s heir, until Desmera bears a son or two.”

“I don’t care,” Jon hissed, “If that’s what you want, when we returned, you’ll have my blessing. I’m regent, I have the authority to give it. You heard Daenerys; my word is as good as hers.”

“How does that work,” she asked, “There’s a Queen with authority, and a regent with the same authority, while the Queen is there.”

“The fuck knows,” Jon shrugged, “It wasn’t me coming up with it. I guess she just wanted to give the same authority. It’s not like I wouldn’t have declined if she named me King. She can’t even name me King; I’m not married to her.”

“Will you,” she asked lowly, “Be married to her.”

“What kind of question is that,” Jon asked in disbelief, “She can’t have children. Believe or not, Sansa, I have to have children, I have to pass on my father’s name and it’s actually quite important to me. This,” he raised his hands, as if to indicate what he referred to, “All of this is my inheritance, and my children’s after me. My father died to protect it; your father lived in a lie to protect it. I won’t throw it away, it’s mine. I’m the future of House Targaryen, and I’ll make sure it has a future.”

She nodded. “Who then?”

“I don’t know,” Jon shook his head as he whispered, “It doesn’t matter, not right now. I came to say goodbye, Sansa.”

“I know,” she said lowly, taking a step closer, then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Finally, he pulled her close, even squeezed her, as they stood silently for long moments holding on to each other.

“Be safe,” he whispered into her hair, “Be strong.”

“I am strong,” he could hear her, “You made me strong.”

Jon smiled, and parted from her. “I’ll see you when I return,” he whispered, then turned around and walked away, as fast as he could, not looking back. He couldn’t look back, the grip he felt on his heart forced him to go on, get away as soon as he could, telling him, else he won’t get away at all.


	83. The Iron Throne VIII.

“How does it feel?”

Daenerys merely gave a glance to Tyrion, before returning to the bowl in front of her.

“Seriously,” he pressed, “I’d like to know. You’ve got what you came for, you did it. Well, not the Iron Throne, you no longer have that, but you are Queen. Not of Seven Kingdoms perhaps, but Six kingdoms.”

“You came for a something because you spent your life wanting it,” she said calmly, pushing the empty bowl away from her, “And you fought wars for it, until you had the remnants of it handed to you on a silver platter. How ironic then, that you don’t feel a thing.”

“You’re not happy,” Tyrion nodded.

“Don’t presume, Lord Tyrion, that you know how I feel,” she sighed. “The Iron Throne had to burn.”

“Explain to me why,” Tyrion asked, “Why it had to burn, because Jon said so?”

“It wasn’t Jon’s idea,” she remarked.

“No, he told me it was yours,” Tyrion smirked, “He told me it was also your idea to name him heir and regent, as if there was even a regency to be had. You made him equal to yourself, when he just made it clear that he didn’t want it. He knelt and swore fealty, finally.”

“Do you think it matters, Lord Tyrion,” she settled her eyes on her Hand as she leaned back in the chair.

“Which part of it,” Tyrion asked. “Actually, don’t answer, your grace. I think it matters, all of it. Now you can build the new world, he’s even began the work for you.”

“About that,” Daenerys smiled, “He forgot to give you your orders. You won’t be sitting in my tent all day long for the next two turns of the moon, Lord Tyrion. You’ll be taking account of the Crownlands.”

“I thought that someone should,” Tyrion remarked.

“You’ll also be responsible to settle this camp at Harrenhal,” she continued, “and to organise a more permanent settlement, ferry the Dothraki huts across, make plans with the builders, assess what’s needed and begin building. You have a lot to do, Lord Tyrion.”

“You forgot to add, your grace,” he smirked once more, “I also have to keep everyone content.”

“Yes,” Daenerys sighed, “That, too.”

She leaned for the jug and poured herself a cup of what Tyrion presumed to be water from the looks of it.

“No wine,” he remarked, “Could send to Hightower for more if you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, “And, to answer your question earlier – I wanted the Iron Throne, all my life, because it was mine. I was the only Targaryen, it was mine, and so I wanted to take what was mine.”

“It’s still yours,” Tyrion remarked, “Although you melted it, so it’s more of a pile of melted steel, but what it represents is yours.”

“It’s never been mine,” She countered.

“Jon gave it to you,” Tyrion remarked suspiciously, “You are his heir, he passed it on to you.”

“Yes, he did,” Daenerys sighed, “That’s what he wanted to do. He confirmed Hightower and made your brother Lord of Casterly Rock, he pardoned Redwyne, he made plans for the settlement at Harrenhal… That’s what he wanted to do.”

“I thought you agreed,” Tyrion said.

“I did agree,” Daenerys nodded, “I do agree, with all of it. The things he did, I believe those are the right things to do, for the people to survive winter, for peace to hold.”

“Including the Northerners remaining in the South, with their Queen,” Tyrion pressed.

“Sometimes I wonder why you see only what you want to see, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys smiled forgivingly.

“What am I not seeing,” Tyrion asked, as she stood. She grabbed a fur from her campbed, wrapping it around her neck.

“A great many things,” she said as she made her way to leave. “I go for a walk. Please, don’t join me. See to it that you begin your many tasks, my Lord Hand.”

“What about Jon leaving today,” Tyrion called after her.

She looked back from the entrance, as if wanting to say something, but then she turned and left without a word.

*****

She walked across the small unsullied camp. She only stopped at the tent where the survivors were cared for, and only glanced in. Missandei was asleep, so were the others rescued from the city. She didn’t linger.

She made her way toward the dragons. If not for their size, they didn’t look fearsome, she concluded, as they laid on the ground, curled up, heads tucked away. She could see Drogon hiding his snout under his wing as he slept, but as Dany neared, the dragon raised its head, watching her approach. She couldn’t see Rhaegal’s head, merely the dragons’ back. But it made her wonder. He was no longer smaller than Drogon, Dany was sure of it, as they laid there curled up next to each other, it was visible. Rhaegal has grown.

Perhaps dragons thrive when they have a rider, she concluded, as Rhaegal raised his head, looking around and back, straight at her. She walked into the small clearing between them, already excited for the ride ahead, despite what she wanted to use it for – to see the city.

“Dany,” she heard Jon and turned. He was just about to stand from where he sat, in Rhaegal’s embrace.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” she said.

“I didn’t expect you to come here,” he smiled.

“I thought I’ll have a ride,” she returned his smile, watching as he came closer. “It’s the only place where Tyrion can’t follow me with his countless questions.” Jon laughed silently at the remark.

“Do you remember Winterfell,” he asked softly, “When I first rode Rhaegal. Gods I almost fell off.”

Dany smiled at the memory, “I remember the wolves howled in the woods when we flew past,” she said. “I guess I should’ve known then, who you are. Only dragonblood should tame a dragon, I don’t know what I was thinking, suggesting that you try, but you did it.”

“Perhaps you trusted the dragon,” he said, “Or, you had enough of dealing with the King in the North. I wouldn’t blame you.”

She climbed atop Drogon.

“Go on,” she called, “Let’s see if the wolves howl for you this time.”

Jon chuckled at that, but he turned and swiftly climbed atop Rhaegal.

*****

The dragons spread their wings, kicked the ground, and were already rising above the camps. Jon watched as the men below turned and looked toward the sky. They didn’t seem to be afraid any longer, they just watched.

Drogon turned north, and Rhaegal followed. Below Jon could see the northern camp, battered as it was. Wolves howled, and she could hear Dany’s laughter in the air. He laughed too, as the dragons turned above the edge of the camp. He looked toward the north and could see Harrenhal in the distance. Everything was still, but not the kind of stillness they grew to fear. The sky was clear, not a single cloud disturbed it, the sun’s pale light shone, and in the distance shone even brighter. Snow, Jon knew, fresh snows must’ve fallen in the north, now shining like silver on the horizon.

They flew above woodland, as Jon turned to his left, he could see the small clearing where he spoke – argued, as always – with Sansa, not even an hour ago.

The Hightower camp was orderly. Their reaction to the dragons was more like what Jon was used to – they jumped, ran around, pointed toward the sky. He looked back, to see Lord Baelor coming forth from his tent even. But Drogon was already turning toward the east, and so Jon followed.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to see this, or that Dany should see it. But at the same time, he felt they should. They had to know, the warmth he felt assured him of an unspoken agreement. There was a link, through the dragons, that confirmed to him, they all agreed. They had to see.

The city was nothing more than ruins. It no longer burned. There were groups of men – Hightower men mostly, but Jon could see Unsullied, and even Wolves – searching among the ruins in groups. They won’t give up for a while yet, Jon thought. They endured the stench, because there was an intense stench to the rubble by now – the stench of corpses rotting under layers of ash and stone.

As far as they could see, there was nothing intact in the city. Whatever wasn’t destroyed in the explosions, must’ve been destroyed by the fires breaking out following those explosions, no longer burning wildfire but feeding off all the burnable materials that were alit by it.

Jon looked ahead. He’s seen enough, though the city was silent, he could almost hear the screams that surely must’ve been heard as countless people fell victim to Cersei’s madness.

It could’ve been King Aerys’ madness, he reminded himself, had Jaime Lannister stood aside, respect the authority of his king no matter how much a cruel tyrant that king was, this would’ve occurred at the hands of King Aerys Targaryen.

The dragons reached the moat around the Red Keep, the ruins of it that remained. Not a single tower stood standing now, Jon could only see rubble upon piles of rubble. But in the middle, there was a clearing. That’s where Drogon landed, and Jon watched Dany get off. Drogon took to the sky, circling around Rhaegal, so Jon landed as well.

He followed Dany ahead, though he could see nothing ahead but rubble. Walls stood. There must’ve been giant circle windows here once, he thought, and columns upon columns, the remnants of which still aimed at the sky.

She stopped, looking to the side, and Jon caught up with her, his eyes following her gaze.

There was a body. It was nothing more than a scorched shape of a body. To Jon’s complete surprise, a misshaped, half-molten tiara graced the burned head, it’s features unrecognisable except where a small bump indicated there once had been a nose, but it was more of a bump and a large hole now, and another that once had been a mouth. The body was scorched black, half covered in ash and dirt, but the shining stones gave away the headpiece, and with them, the identity of the corpse.

“Cersei Lannister,” she sighed, and Jon nodded.

“Ser Jaime killed her,” she whispered.

“He did,” Jon said, “But he’s a lord now, not a ser.”

“I didn’t trust him,” she said, looking back at Jon, “You did, and you were right. In the end, he killed his sister.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, she turned and took the few steps, so Jon followed. The steps were covered in steel. At the top, more melted steel made the ground under their feet uneven, slippery.

“Careful not to fall,” Jon whispered, and she glanced back at him with a smile.

There it was, right in front of them, was where once the Iron Throne stood. It was no longer a throne, not even a chair. It was a misshaped lump of steel. She reached down and touched the steel, her fingers merely brushing it.

“I don’t regret it,” she said softly, “I thought I would. I thought I’ll come here and curse myself for burning it and I’ll vow to make a new one, to melt the steel and make a new throne.”

Jon raised an eyebrow.

“And now I am here, and all I keep thinking is why in the seven hells did I want to come here so much,” she chuckled. “How little it actually means to me.”

“You’re much more than a chair of swords,” Jon said.

“It could’ve been different,” she said as she turned. “I’ve never told you, there was a vision I had. In Qarth, when they stole my dragons.”

“Who stole your dragons,” he asked suspiciously.

“The Warlocks of Qarth,” she began to explain, “Sorcerers. The took them to the House of the Undying, where they reside, or used to reside. The dragons were small back then, I was trying to teach them to breathe fire on command. I went to fetch them, and they tempted me with these… visions.”

“Visions,” Jon repeated, curiously.

“Yes, I saw my husband and my son in one of them,” she said, “They were in a hut, beyond the wall.”

“There never were Dothraki huts beyond the wall,” Jon smiled.

“Visions are symbolic, Jon,” she said, “in one I was walking in this hall. It didn’t look much different; ash was falling from the sky. The throne stood here, and I came up the steps… she wasn’t laying there. I reached out and I almost touched it…” She looked back at the steel stump, “My dragons cried, and I didn’t touch it. I went out of this hall, and found myself north the Wall.”

“Sounds strange,” Jon remarked, “What does it mean?”

“They were the future, I believe,” she said, “Visions of versions of the future. Options I had and didn’t take.”

Jon sighed. “I still don’t understand it. I don’t see what that’s supposed to tell you.”

She gave him a forgiving smile, “You do have a kind heart, Jon,” she said, as she brushed his cheek with her palm, “You don’t imagine how bad people can be. But I can imagine, because I had it in me. It burned inside, like an enormous pyre of fire around my heart and it ate at it endlessly, I craved this chair, I felt that’s the only thing that could soothe the fire in my heart and there was nothing, nothing to hold me back from it.”

“I would’ve burned this city, if I had to,” she whispered, “I could’ve and I would’ve burned this city if it stood between me and what I wanted.”

“Sometimes we want things, Dany,” he said, “but we don’t need them, and we realise we need other things. Then the things we wanted lose their significance to us.”

“Which is exactly what happened to this chair,” she smiled a bright smile, as she took his face in her palms, “You gave me what I needed, Jon. You gave me family.”

Jon swallowed. “What are you telling me,” he asked.

“I am telling you, that I was alone, and I am no longer alone,” she said, “I am not the last Targaryen. My name will not die with me, I don’t have to undo every injustice that besmirched that name, I don’t have to conquer the world to give it a meaning, to make sure people never forget it. Do you understand?”

“You have me, I understand,” he whispered, “No, you’re not the last Targaryen.”

She looked into his eyes for a moment, before she let go of his face, turning back toward the steel stump that was once the Iron Throne.

“I want to ask you something,” she said, “Ask something of you, find something while you’re in Essos.”

“Of course,” Jon said.

“You won’t like it,” Dany said. “I want you to go to Pentos.”

“I will go to Pentos,” Jon smiled, “That’s where I’ll start. Find the person who aided Varys.”

“Find Illirio Mopatis,” Dany said, and Jon nodded, that’s where he’ll start.

“But also, find a house,” she said. “It used to belong to Ser Willem Darry. Have you heard of him?”

Jon could only shake his head. “He was Master of Arms at the Red Keep, Jon. He trained your father to fight. When I was a little girl, we lived with him. He wanted to help Viserys take back the Iron Throne, they used to talk about it a lot.”

“What happened to him,” Jon asked in awe, of how much he was yet to learn.

“He died,” she said, “He fell ill, and he died. Then we were thrown out to the streets.”

“Why,” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he listened.

“Why do servants steal from little children, when the lord dies,” she asked, “And there is no one to defend the little children… If you can, find that house. Find the servants, and pay them for their service to Ser Willem. He was good to me, Jon, he protected me, and he was good to your father, loyal to his dying breath. He died and they stole what little he had, and threw us out.”

Jon chuckled, “Some things never change. You want revenge.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t want them to have what belonged to Ser Willem. It was my home. Big house, red door, lemon trees in the front yard… that’s home. They took it from me, and I never again had a home.”

“You have a home now,” Jon said softly, and she turned, once more caressed his face with her palm.

“I have your home,” she said, “Your people, your family,”

“You are my family,” he interrupted her.

“I am,” she smiled, “And you are mine. I told you, you’ve given me something more precious than a thousand Iron Thrones could be.”

Jon nodded, watching as she turned to leave. He offered his hand, but she didn’t take it, she carefully took the steps one by one, not once glancing at the burned body she walked past. Jon did, he took a long look at it. Cersei Lannister. He’ll tell Sansa.

He won’t see Sansa until he returns, but he’ll tell Sansa what he’s seen here.

“Will you rebuild it,” he asked, looking after Dany standing at distance, “The city.”

“No,” she declared emotionlessly, “Who’d want to live where hundreds of thousands died? This place is cursed, no one should rebuild it.”

There’s a point in that, Jon had to agree. He watched as Drogon landed, Dany climbed on and left. He did the same, with Rhaegal, and followed the black dragon straight back to the clearing on the rocks where the dragons resided. All the while wondering how he’ll find a big house with red door and lemon trees in a large city that he’s never seen before. Ser Willem Darry, Jon memorised the name. The sea voyage will be long – he’ll have more than enough time to ask Griff, and perhaps Griff knows of the house, even, he concluded.

He could see that dinghies were departing, just before he landed.

“Dany,” he called after Daenerys, also watching the small boats in the distance, as they neared the ships.

“This is goodbye,” she said, and turned toward him.

“It is,” Jon forced a smile on his face, “We’ll return soon though.”

She didn’t respond, only nodded. Jon wondered what he should say, he felt like there were a thousand things he wanted to say, and yet, nothing really came to mind, no sentences formed. Finally, he opened his arms, and she laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her close and held her for a moment.

“I needed this,” she said as she parted from him, “I wish you good fortune, Jon. Is that the Westerosi custom to say?”

“Something like it,” Jon chuckled, “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, that’s that. But we don’t wish wars on people, I suppose, so we rarely say the full thing.”

She nodded.

“Be safe, Dany,” he said then.

“You don’t ask me to look after your family,” she asked.

“No, I don’t,” Jon shook his head, slight grin in the corner of his mouth, “Just look after yourself, that’s all I ask.”

“You too, Jon,” she whispered, and Jon nodded. For a moment he wondered if there was anything else to say, but then, he turned and left.

*****

Humfrey watched the men climb aboard.

“Have you found a lordly cabin,” he heard behind him and turned, “Stupid boy, I can’t fathom what the fuck are you doing on this ship,” Griff grinned, but he grabbed Humfrey, pulling him into a hug.

It was so surprising, Humfrey almost lost his balance.

“You seem to be recovering well,” he said, once Griff released him.

“I’ve been a soldier longer than I’ve been a lord,” Griff declared, “I’ve had worse scratches, Humfrey Hightower. But you? I am not sure, without your fancy sword.”

Humfrey laughed, “You still think I can’t fight,” he noted aloud.

“The fuck you were doing,” Griff grinned, “Dancing around Thoyne like some clown.”

“You know very well what I was doing,” Humfrey glanced at him. The sight ahead was much more interesting than Griff though, as he watched the small girl jump aboard.

“Arya Stark,” Griff whispered.

“Yes, Arya Stark,” Humfrey repeated. “Wearing man’s clothing, again.”

“I don’t think she ever wore woman’s clothing,” Griff remarked, “And she certainly never will.”

Just then, Arya noticed them.

“No fancy armour this time,” she called out to Humfrey.

“Seems I’ll enjoy this journey very much,” Humfrey chuckled, “I’m the laughingstock of every man on this ship.”

“I’m no man,” Arya remarked as she reached them.

“Valar morghūlis,” Griff nodded to the girl.

“Valar Dohaeris,” Arya nodded in return, “Cabins?”

“There are some below,” Griff nodded toward the narrow door that led down, “If they can be called that. These Iron Islanders don’t really care for comfort I find.”

“Was it the same when you arrived, then,” Humfrey asked, “You arrived with the Iron Fleet, no?”

“Different fleet,” Griff sighed, “but the same discomfort. Cards or dice?”

“What,” Humfrey raised an eyebrow.

“What do you prefer,” Griff explained, “And you, my Lady, cards or dice?”

Arya chuckled.

“What are you doing here, Lady Arya,” Humfrey asked instead.

“I’m no Lady,” Arya said nonchalantly, “And what I do is no business of yours. Suffice it to say, someone has to chaperone you lot.”

Humfrey and Griff exchanged a glance.

“And that would be you my La… Arya,” Griff remarked.

She merely shrugged it off.

“Then how should we address you,” Humfrey asked.

“You shouldn’t,” she said, as she turned to see why Theon rushed forth from behind them. Sure enough, Jon arrived on the ship. She made her way to Jon, but turned back, “You shouldn’t, I’m no one. And Griff, dice.”

“You better get used to it, Hightower,” Griff grinned, seeing Humfrey’s stunned face. “You mean to wed her sister, that’s the rest of your life with her.”

“That’s not it,” Humfrey whispered. “What she said.”

“What did she say,” Griff raised his eyebrows.

“No one,” Humfrey repeated.

“Oh, that,” Griff shrugged.

“You’ve known.”

“I did,” Griff grinned once more, “I find it interesting. But I can see that you don’t.”

“Have a contract on my head,” Humfrey whispered.

“A contract,” Griff’s eyes narrowed.

“Whatever they call it,” Humfrey said, “My name promised to the many-faced God.”

“Well, we better quickly find you a new name then,” Griff declared.

“New name?” Jon stopped in front of them, Theon was about to take his saddle bag that he refused to let go of.

“Why are we taking with us this Hightower, again?” Griff asked, “If you want him dead, just cut his head off and spare the trouble, he’ll bring the whole House against us.”

Jon grinned, “I see you are getting more acquainted,” he said, “And that is why we are bringing him with us. He escaped them once, I figured he’ll know a thing or two and he’ll be keen enough to escape them again.”

“For a moment I wondered if you meant to trade him,” Griff said.

Humfrey looked at the both of them, back and forth, then at Theon, Arya stopping near him.

“Fuck this,” he hissed, and Jon burst out laughing.

“You may still be able to catch a dingy back if you changed your mind, Humfrey,” he said as he put a hand on Humfrey’s shoulder, “But I meant what I said. You have certain skills I lack; you escaped the Faceless Men. I need that skill, so try to keep yourself alive. That shall keep Griff and me alive.”

“And her?” Griff nodded toward Arya.

“Wasn’t part of my plans,” Jon said, “But Arya does what she wants.”

They all looked at Arya then. “Or what she has to. I told you Griff, someone has to chaperone you lot, looks like I was right. But don’t think I won’t cut your throat if you cheat at dice.”

Jon laughed with Griff at the remark, as he turned to a stunned Theon.

“Where’s your sister, Theon,” he asked, “I mean to set out.”

“I’ll give the order,” Theon nodded.

“Not your sister?”

“No, your… Jon,” Theon shook his head, “The Queen asked Yara to stay.”

“Why?” Jon asked, looking at the distance, at the dozen of ships lining up between them and the shoreline.

“I don’t know,” Theon said, as Jon finally released the saddlebag, more because he focused on those ships than because he wanted to part with it. “I tell the captain,” Theon bowed and left.

Jon watched the shoreline. In the distance, beyond those ships, she could see the rocks where he held his private meetings, just a little south from where he could see the dragons resting. His mind was still being probed, begged.

No, you cannot come with me, I told you why. Stay with your mother, protect her.

He felt the sadness, as the green dragon raised its head, looking to his direction. He felt something else as well. Farewell.

He could also see the figure standing there, where he used to hold his meetings. Long white coat, silver hair blown by the winds. Daenerys.

Men began to run around, attending to their many tasks. A horn sounded, the sails were released, picking up the wind straight away. Jon could feel the ship moving, as he stood there still wondering, what was it that he missed.

“Are you all right,” he heard Griff beside him.

“Aye,” Jon nodded.

“You’ll need a new name too,” Griff said then.

“Aye,” Jon nodded again, “Though I have more than enough names already, just choose one.”

“And the boy?”

“He’ll be fine,” Jon remarked, “There’s much more to that Hightower than he lets on.”

“Oh I know that,” Griff grinned. Jon still stared back at the shoreline, for a few moments longer. Then he turned to Griff, “I hear there’ll be a game of dice,” he smiled, “Let’s get on with it.”

*****

“They’re leaving,” Tyrion remarked.

“They are,” Daenerys sighed, “I can see it, Lord Tyrion.”

“Yara Greyjoy is waiting for you in your tent,” Tyrion reported, but received no answer. She was still staring into the distance, watching as the ships grew smaller and smaller, until they began to fade into the horizon.

“When we first spoke,” she said then, “Do you remember what you told me?”

“We spoke about many things,” Tyrion remarked.

“About helping me get what I want.”

“I said, perhaps you should be wanting something else,” Tyrion said then, “I was wrong, you made it here, you won…”

She raised her hand to stop him.

“You said, there’s more to the world than Westeros after all. Because, I’ve changed hundreds of lives for the better in Meereen, that’s how you reasoned.”

She turned toward him.

“Perhaps this is where you belong, where you can do the most good, that, is what you said.”

“And you said, you’ll continue that fight,” Tyrion declared, “In Meereen, and beyond. But Meereen is not your home.”

Dany chuckled at that. “It wasn’t,” she said, “My home, it wasn’t. Jon will go and see if my home still stands.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, but she already dismissed the topic.

“I went to see,” she said, “With Jon, we saw the Iron Throne. The melted steel that remains of it. We saw the burned body of your sister.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Tyrion remarked, “Now I may actually believe that she’s dead.”

“It’s hard to believe isn’t it,” she asked, “That the war is over. All wars are over.”

“Time to build the new world,” Tyrion declared.

“Yes,” she sighed, “You’ll be quite busy, Lord Tyrion.”

“I’m not complaining,” Tyrion smiled, “I find it’s a service worth the effort.”

“Good,” she turned away from him, beginning the short walk back to the camp. Tyrion only noticed then that Yara Greyjoy stood at distance, waiting.

“How long,” The Queen asked Yara.

“By sunrise, we’ll be ready,” Yara said confidently.

“Ready with what,” Tyrion called after them. He began to run after the queen. “What are you doing?”

Daenerys glanced at him, “I am sending Missandei and the Unsullied back to Meereen,” she declared, “With Yara.”

“You’re sending your personal guard away,” Tyrion remarked, shocked, trying to make something of what he’s learned.

Daenerys only looked at him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he asked, just as Daenerys turned from him, continuing her walk with Yara.

“You can’t!”, Tyrion called out, “You can’t leave, you’re the Queen! Jon made you Queen!”

“I was a Queen,” Daenerys said, “Long before Jon made me, Lord Tyrion.”

“You can’t leave us,” Tyrion repeated, rushing after them, “We need you; Jon needs you, and I need you. The people need their Queen!”

Finally, she turned to him at the entrance of her tent. “I told you, Lord Tyrion, you only see what you want to see,” she said. “But you have many tasks, I believe. You better get to work, Lord Tyrion.” With that, she entered the tent, with Yara Greyjoy in tow. The guards stepped in front of Tyrion – he was not to enter, he understood.

*****

He hasn’t slept much that night. Not that he slept much in the past days. He could smell the city, now firmly, he realised, making the mental note to begin preparation for a preferably swift move north to Harrenhal. The sooner they moved the better, before sickness breaks out so close to the countless rotting corpses.

He woke at first light. He almost jumped out of bed, dressed at record speed, as much as pulling on one’s coat and cloak could be called dressing. He made his way straight for the Queen’s tent. She wasn’t there. Her guards weren’t there.

Perhaps at the beach, Tyrion told himself, she is sending off the Unsullied.

He ran to the rocks, where just the day before he watched the sunrise with Jon. Now, the sunrise was the same, it carried the same ethereal beauty in its violet shades, sparkling stars still visible on the sky, but he stood alone. Beyond, he could see the shapes of ships departing.

Then he heard it. A dragon shrieked, then another.

He stood, frozen, as he watched the dragons flying out to sea, after the ships. His heart skipped a beat, and then another, the air stopped moving in his lungs, as he watched the figure on the black one, looking back.

He swallowed hard.

The green dragon turned, circled around, shrieking. Tyrion watched, as it parted from the black, but the black flew straight ahead. He watched as it disappeared in the sky, just as the ships disappeared on the horizon, he could not have told how long he stood there, watching, as finally, the green dragon also disappeared.

 

 

 

 

[ END OF GAME OF THRONES ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +++++++ Hey this is not the absolutely last chapter I write in the story. It says 83/? Chapters still lol  
> The bookmark count on this story is going down? Like - what???? Are people not interested in what comes after? Lol.  
> So let’s just reiterate - the main story ended. The epilogue is coming next.
> 
> (Original notes below):  
> This is where it ends...  
> No one sits on the throne and there's no Iron Throne.
> 
> Next chapter will pick up the story 6 months after this chapter, as the first chapter of the Epilogue. Some people asked earlier if I'd write something that comes AFTER GoT ends, and I decided to do that as the epilogue - still retaining the main elements I had when I planned 2x epilogues - it's a whole story albeit MUCH shorter than this was (I hope! hahah) - like when massive TV shows end and studios throws more money at them to peel one more layer of skin off so to say - make some more money even after the end. Like Downton Abbey which I haven't seen a single episode of but has a movie in cinemas?  
> As for why Dany left, it'll get explained down the line (not straight away)...


	84. Epilogue - Braavos I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6 TURNS OF THE MOON HAVE PASSED...

“Ser Davos.”

Davos looked around, turned, looked back toward the ship – he couldn’t see where the call came from. No one looked at him, men and women rushing about their business, beggars sitting on the sideline, and merchants selling all kind of useless things, none of them paid any attention to him. He was nothing more than another stranger, and the peer was busy, perhaps even busier than the last time he saw it. When was that? He glanced back at the entrance of the harbour – the Titan stood, just as he remembered it. Life seemed to have not had even the tiniest impact on this city, since the last time he came here with Stannis.

And how much has changed since then in Westeros? Davos thought of Stannis Baratheon strangely – it’s been a long while since he thought of Stannis. It felt like a lifetime ago that they walked this peer together.

“Ser Davos,” He heard again and turned, looked, “Here.”

Davos’ narrowed his eyes, watching the beggar, old man, in torn robes, looking into the distance, as if he wasn’t even standing there.

“Do you have a coin for a man less fortunate than yourself,” the man looked into his direction, reaching out his hand, and Davos began to fiddle in his pocket. Of course, he would share what little he had, he thought, it’s true that it could’ve have been him sitting here, in another life, another version of events. He dropped a small coin into the wrinkled palm.

“Thank you, Ser Davos.”

He raised an eyebrow, “How…”

But the man put his middle finger in front of his mouth, indicating to him not to speak.

“He is not here,” he said, “The man you seek.”

“And how do you know whom I seek,” Davos remarked, “You’re an old man in Braavos.”

“Braavos, Pentos, Lys and Tyrosh…” The old man said with a fickle of a smile, “Myr and Qohor. Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen, Bay of Dragons. This is Essos. And you are from Westeros, west of Essos. What’s west of Westeros?”

“I don’t…” Davos began but then it hit him. He crouched down, looking into the man’s white eyes. He was blind, Davos realised, but those white eyes turned toward him then.

“You won’t find here the man you seek,” the man said, “He won’t return here, not until the Unmasking, if ever.”

“How do you know,” Davos asked.

“That’s what I do,” the man said, “I know things. I know that you booked a room, I tell you not to take it. Go straight ahead, until you reach the square, there’ll be a play. You’ll enjoy it, stupid play. But when the sun sets, go behind the stage. You’ll find help there. Do not take the room.”

Davos tilted his head, thinking about it for a moment before he nodded.

“Now if you don’t mind,” the man said. “You lingered long enough, Ser Davos, too long. Go on your way.”

He stood, still watching the man albeit the white eyes already turned back to staring into the distance, as if he was no longer there.

“Who are you,” he asked.

“No one,” the man said, “Go, Ser Davos.”

*****

“I didn’t believe it,” the man said with a grin, motioning for Edric to sit, and so he did, wondering about the accent. The man was a curious one, Edric thought, the kind that makes the hair stand on your back. The kind he thought he’ll never have to meet again.

“I didn’t believe it either, when I left Norvos,” he said nonchalantly, “But things change.”

“Dead men change things, I hear,” The man declared. “You needn’t explain, Edric Snow. You won’t be the first man abandoning Westeros. In fact, I hear your company isn’t the first either.”

“The Golden Company,” Edric remarked, “Different story.”

“They owed a debt,” The man shrugged, “And now, you owe a debt. Or, better said, your Queen does.”

“I do,” Edric corrected the man coldly, “My Queen has nothing to do with it.”

“Really,” the man offered Edric a cup of wine. He refused. “I changed my mind, pray you do explain, after all, your company is here, not in Westeros. You won’t reap the benefits of your labour.”

Edric watched the man for a moment.

“And why should I explain,” he said, “Since when does the client meddle in the transaction. My contract is with the Iron Bank. You paid the bank, so get on with it. What do you want ten thousand Wolves for, Westerosi?”

“Wolves,” the man nodded, “I hear that is how the King in the North calls your men. Or used to call them, since he’s nowhere to be found, and he’s not even King of anything anymore.”

Edric took a deep breath.

“See, I am representing the client,” the man said, “You got that right, Edric Snow. And your company has been contracted out by the Iron Bank, to those whom I represent. So unfortunately for you, I am going to meddle in your affairs, and you have nothing you can do to stop it. That is, unless you mean to create another Golden Company situation.”

“The company returned to service,” Edric hissed.

“They broke contract,” the man remarked, “To follow a Targaryen and defeat an army of dead men if the tales are to be believed. They ended up defeating their own client in the process, only to find out they’ve been sold out. How unfortunate.”

“My company has not been sold out,” Edric declared.

“You’re here,” the man countered, “I see no difference, really. The Golden Company has been sold out by its leader Harry Strickland for land and title. The Company of the Rose is now being sold out by its leader Edric Snow, for what exactly?”

Edric swallowed. He wanted to punch this man in the face, so hard. Punch the front teeth out of his mouth, to teach him manners.

“Future,” he hissed.

“Future,” the man repeated, “Now we are talking. Tell me, Edric Snow, what is the future looking like?”

Edric had no answer.

“Let me indulge you,” the man leaned back in his chair, “Daenerys Targaryen is Queen of Westeros. Your Queen has a frozen wasteland and her people as refugees residing on lands that clearly belong to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“With Queen Daenerys’ blessing,” Edric interrupted.

“Are you going to tell me, your Queen and Queen Daenerys have found they are much alike after all and love each other like sisters,” the man raised an eyebrow, smug grin forming in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “Of course not, you and I both know that will never happen. And when Queen Daenerys grows tired of tolerating your Queen… what will happen?”

Edric leaned back in his chair. From his point of view this conversation was over. The man was right – he couldn’t stand up and walk away. For the first time since he’s been leading his company, he didn’t have the luxury of choice, which assignment to take. But he didn’t have to participate either.

“So how about a future,” the man said, “in which your Queen has nothing to fear from Queen Daenerys, or her dragons.”

Edric’s face remained motionless. Instead, he began to study the man. The armour he wore was fine Braavosi work, the gold cape, with the unusual white lining was pristine. This man had money, and no reason to fight. He wasn’t young, but far from middle age, his dark purple eyes shone cruel. Edric tried to place him somewhere and yet couldn’t. He cursed himself for not knowing more of Westerosi.

“I don’t think my Queen has anything to fear in that regard,” Edric declared.

“Not while the nephew lives,” the man said, “Does he live?”

Edric swallowed hard. He didn’t know.

“You just arrived, Edric Snow,” the man grinned, “If you spent but two days in Braavos, you’d be told the same tales I’ve heard. The many-faced God has been promised a new name, an illustrious name, Targaryen. The Faceless Men are on the hunt, Edric Snow, and were they not enough, so is every fucking cutthroat this side of the Narrow Sea, for the reward promised for the head of the same Targaryen. The boy is likely dead, and if not, he will be soon enough.”

“What are you talking about,” Edric hissed.

“Future,” the man declared, “I thought we are talking about the future. And the future is not looking good for your precious North. Their only defence now hired out for what I can see crumbs under the dinner table, their people today tolerated, tomorrow perhaps imprisoned on Southern land. You think you’re buying them future. I say you’ve bought them time to contemplate their inevitable demise.”

“The fuck is the point then,” Edric hissed, “Why not punch you in the face and walk away then.”

“Because it’s not the future you want,” the man grinned once more, even wider than before. “See the bigger picture. Why secure more time for them, when you can secure future itself. The future of your precious North. I hear you’re a Lord now, Edric Snow. Dreadfort? Not like the Boltons would return to claim it.”

“Snowfort,” Edric corrected annoyed.

“Of course,” the man waved it away as insignificance, “Northern sentiment, you and yours have a thing for your heritage, always did. It’s a feat, I give you that, your forefathers would be proud of you now. Not that it matters if you die, they die, northern independence dies with them.”

“The fuck you talking about,” Edric stood, “Fucking riddles, say what you want to say.”

“I was just about to,” the man remarked. “You have a mission, paid for, but that’s only paid fighting force. I mean to agree on the payment for your loyalty.”

“My loyalty is not for sale.”

“Oh but it is,” the man said, “The price of it is the North itself, Edric Snow. The life of that beautiful young Queen you mean to protect. Hells, we can even throw her in if you fancy her, though I hear she’s damaged goods, that Bolton bastard saw to that. But I hear she’s a beauty, I hear only Daenerys Targaryen is more beautiful than your Queen. IF you want her for yourself, even that can be arranged.”

“Now I really mean to punch you,” Edric said lowly, trying his best to control the fists clenching by his side.

“No?” The man stood, “Fine then. Perhaps you’re like Connington, prefer Targaryen boys’ backsides to beautiful Queens’ pussies. Doesn’t matter. Independent North, supplied steadily through to spring, with no further need for you to contract the company. All you need to do, is see through your mission.”

“If only you told me what the mission is,” Edric hissed, “That’s what I came for, not this idiocy.”

“I was about to,” the man glanced at Edric, “Take your men to Bhorash, in a moon’s turn I meet you there.”

“Bhorash,” Edric repeated, “The bay of Dragons.”

“The bay of Dragons, indeed,” the man smiled.

“I cannot take the company against the bay of Dragons,” Edric declared, hoping his panic didn’t show.

“Your company goes where I say it goes,” the man said, emphasizing the word “I”. “MY client wants your company in Bhorash, ready to fight in a moon’s turn.”

“I’ll petition for a different contract,” Edric turned to leave, “It is clear that we are unable to represent your client. All this talk for nothing.”

“And yet, you have no choice,” the man called after him. Edric turned.

“You have no choice, Edric Snow,” the man repeated, “You can turn, petition, even break contract with the Bank… of course now you know the House is after the Targaryen boy, but in your case, I am sure they can spare some of their assassins to sort you out, and that beautiful Queen of yours… you have no choice. There’s no other contract, go and ask Tycho Nestoris, he’ll tell you the same. The bank has no interest in feeding northerners. The bank has interest in supporting MY client, and that is why you are here. There is no other way. Turn, and the North will fall, your Queen and you and your company. Or see through your mission and secure their survival – not just the cargo you’ve bought with your contract, but survival. Future, Edric Snow. Independence for the North. That is your payment.”

Edric stood, his eyes on the man. He wanted to turn and walk away, but his legs weren’t willing. The threat was too great.

“In truth,” the man shrugged, “Your arrival is such a nice surprise, Edric Snow. Your overture to the Bank has made something once questioned now secure. How to secure the support of those stubborn northerners, or subdue them instead? Annihilate them? You resolved this great conundrum; it needs no deciding by my client. The choice is yours. The future you want, Edric Snow, it’s in your hands. Question is, are you willing to take it, or not.”

At that, Edric finally found his legs, turned and rushed away.

“Bhorash,” the man called after him, “In a moon’s turn, Edric Snow.”

*****

Davos found that he enjoyed the play, albeit it was more of a mess than anything else, certainly not a clever parody. He laughed hard and often, at Cersei, Joffrey, even the character named after Ned Stark. The actors were awful, truth be told, all they did was farting and cursing and flashing cocks and boobs. At one time he wondered what the Queen would make of it, some dwarf pulling the dress off the chest of her impersonator like that.

The sun was going down, he awaited keenly, turning often to see whether it was beyond the horizon. Once it was, and by which time the play must’ve been almost at an end, he made his way past the stage. Looking around, he satisfied himself that no one followed him, before he entered. Straight away an arm reached out and pulled him aside.

“Lady Arya,” Davos smiled, but Arya shook her head.

“Here,” she handed a bundle to him, “Anyone could tell who you are from how you look.”

“Even a blind man,” Davos grinned.

“Men have eyes and don’t see,” Arya remarked, “Sometimes things become more visible in the darkness. The most important things do. Change.”

He unwrapped the bundle.

It definitely was not his style, he concluded, leather breeches and boots, and a shirt, looking like it was made of cloth of gold, with a long leather coat, big fur around the neck. An even bigger belt and a chain completed the look. It looked gold, but once he lifted it, Davos was certain that it wasn’t.

“Now you look more the part,” Arya said as she stepped out of the darkness, and Davos could finally see her.

He chuckled. Arya Stark wore a skirt, long and full, and embroidered blouse along with a knitted coat. Most importantly, he wore long blond hair, intricately braided around her head.

“I see we don’t want people to see us for who we are,” Davos remarked with a slight grin.

“No,” she shrugged, “We don’t.”

She tucked needle into the folds of her skirt, and waved for him to follow.

They left just at the right time, the play ended, the actors already began to make their way behind the stage.

“Was it you,” Davos asked as they stepped out to the street, “The old man.”

“He was no one,” Arya shrugged.

They didn’t speak, as she led him across the darkening streets. Finally, in one corner, she stopped, merely peeking out from behind the wall.

“Listen,” she whispered, and Davos peaked out to see what he was listening for.

Straight away he could see the inn, the one he hoped to be soundly sleeping in one of the rooms of by now. At the entrance stood two men.

“I don’t hear anything,” Davos whispered.

“Be patient,” her response came, and they stood there for a while. But it didn’t take long for Davos to understand.

“He’s not here,” a man called out, before he stepped down and out the door of the establishment. “Neither of them is here.”

“Are you sure they arrived,” he looked at the two waiting at the entrance.

“We saw the old man at the pier,” one responded.

“The sellsword went to the Bank,” another declared, “he can lead us nowhere if he takes a contract.”

“We have to find the old man,” the third said then, “Find him, and we find the Targaryen boy.”

Davos raised an eyebrow, just as Arya motioned for him to stay put for longer. The three men began to make their way toward them, and they pressed themselves against the wall to remain unseen.

“We don’t even know the boy is here,” a man said, “for all we know he may be dead already.”

“He’s not dead,” another hissed.

“Don’t be a fool,” the man responded, “We aren’t the only ones looking for him.”

“No, but I mean to cash in,” the other shrugged, “Nobody will find the Targaryen boy by stumbling upon him, so we need to find the old smuggler. He’ll lead to the boy.”

They walked past, not even looking into the small lane where Arya and Davos hid. After waiting until they were no longer seen on the street, Arya stepped out.

“Come now,” she hissed, and their journey continued. Lanes, bridges, Davos couldn’t even tell where they were going, it seemed they were walking for hours, past whores and drunkards and even a streetfight, until Arya led him below a bridge, into a set of catacombs.

“We can’t stay,” she whispered, “It’s not safe for you.”

She led him to two horses. He could see that they were already saddled, bags hanging down their sides. “We leave now, by the time the sun rises we’ll be far enough.”

“Surely we can’t ride through the gates at night,” Davos remarked.

“No,” Arya glanced at him, “We can’t ride through the gates at any time.”

She grabbed the reins of one of the horses and made her way into the darkness of the catacombs. Davos shrugged, grabbing the reins of the other he followed. He couldn’t see a thing, merely following the noise where he could hear the horse ahead. He couldn’t hear Arya.

Another hour passed as they made their way through the tunnels, but suddenly, Davos could see faint light ahead. He was almost surprised that she was still in front of him, she moved so silently, Davos thought he’ll only find a horse ahead of him at the end of this – if there was an end of this.

But here it was, the end; and as he led the horse out into the starlight and looked back, he could see the walls behind them. They left the city.

Arya mounted, so he followed suit, and they rode off. He wondered where, and why, but he didn’t ask, not until they stop, he told himself. Whatever they were doing, whatever caused the need for such secrecy, he decided it must be reasonable if Arya Stark saw it fit to welcome him this way.

*****

It must’ve been midday by the time they stopped, at a clearing among the rocks on the mountain pass.

“Is there an easier road,” Davos asked, as he sat down besides Arya.

“If you want to part with your head, Ser Davos,” she said, as she pulled the skirt off her legs, dragged the frilly blouse off and pulled on a coat and cape.

“Now you look more like yourself,” Davos smiled, “If not for the hair.”

“Can’t do much about that now,” Arya smiled, “That was done in Myr. I got a bit too much to drink.”

“And dyed your hair,” Davos raised an eyebrow.

“It was a bet,” Arya remarked, “Can’t make my hair look like Humfrey’s. I did it.”

“What have you won?”

“A bag of coins,” Arya grinned, “Humfrey’s payment the last three moons.”

“Payment,” Davos repeated to himself.

“They are in contract,” Arya reasoned. “The bank doesn’t pay them, of course, but the magisters do.”

“Those men,” Davos’ face turned serious, “They were looking for Jon.”

“No, they were looking for you,” Arya declared, “Lord Tyrion is an idiot, sending you here.”

“Truth be told, I volunteered,” Davos said, “It was my idea. We had to find Jon.”

“We don’t mention that name here,” Arya said sternly, “You shouldn’t either, if you mean to keep him alive.”

“Something tells me,” Davos remarked, “I am lacking information.”

“Every fucking cutthroat is looking for him,” Arya remarked. “Because he burned down the house of Illirio Mopatis. When Rhaegal returned to him.”

“I didn’t know he burned down the house of someone,” Davos said.

“Long story,” Arya shrugged. “He can tell you if he wants to.”

“So where are we going,” Davos asked.

Arya shrugged once more, “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s helpful.”

“They are in contract,” Arya reasoned, as she began to unwrap the bread and cheese, “Though they are trying to end it, they were for six full turns of the moon. It’s done, but they’ve not fought.”

“That’s no answer to my question, my Lady,” Davos said kindly.

“I don’t know where we are going,” Arya shrugged. “If they are there, Ghost will reside in the Stepstones. But if their contract ended, he won’t stay there. He’s in danger there.”

“Ghost,” Davos asked, “Like… the wolf?”

“Aye,” Arya nodded, stuffing her mouth full of cheese before offering a slice to Davos. “The White Wolf. Anyone you ask, they’ll tell you the leader of the Golden Company is the White Wolf, that’s the word. But no one ever sees him, so they began to call him Ghost. It’s ironic.”

Davos grinned, “It is befitting.”

“His name has been promised to the many-faced God,” Arya said, “the cutthroats are easy to find. We caught a couple of them. The House doesn’t send cutthroats, though. But he caught two of those as well. There’ve been more attacks than I could recall now, that’s why he’s in hiding.”

“Sooner or later someone will have to put this together for me,” Davos remarked.

“There isn’t much to put together,” Arya said. “We arrived, and the first night someone tried to kill him in his sleep. That’s how we knew, his name has been promised. Good he’s awful at sleeping, he wasn’t in the bed. He caught that one from behind, he was stunned that it was an old blind man. But then I pulled the face off.”

“Who paid for it,” Davos asked then.

“He has ideas,” Arya said, “After all, someone wanted him dead even during the war. Someone wanted to entrap Daenerys, that’s what he thinks. That it’s all connected somehow, he means to figure it out.”

“Daenerys left,” Davos declared then sourly, “Flew off the morning after you lot sailed, and never returned.”

“We thought so,” Arya remarked, “He didn’t believe it, when we told him, but Rhaegal returned to him.”

“So the dragon is with him,” Davos asked.

“No, it isn’t, he sends it away into the Grass Sea. More like dead sea, if you ask me. He only calls it back when he means to fight. Would be hard to hide with a dragon. Eat, Ser, you’ll need it.”

Just then they heard it, Davos couldn’t have mistaken it to anything else – a dragon shrieked.

“Perhaps they fought,” Arya said, before she stood, “Or they will fight soon.”

She stood, looking around. “We go to Lys.”

“Why Lys, now,” Davos asked.

“There’s a house there,” Arya smirked, “A brothel. Pillow house, whatever. The company buys it for a few nights time to time.”

“A brothel,” Davos repeated.

“Safest place in Essos,” Arya shrugged, “For a few nights, time to time. The company fights for Myr, Ser, Myr and Lys against Tyrosh. Over some lands, I can’t care less about it. The conclave are generous folk and, well there’s something they’re in abundance of in Lys.”

*****

Sansa sighed at the sight. On the horizon, still hidden by the fog that seemed to have settled permanently over the bay, she could make out ships. She could tell that they were nearing.

She turned and looked around. Men were ready on the hastily fabricated peers.

“Be ready to fight,” she said to Paxter Redwyne standing beside her.

“To fight, your grace,” Redwyne’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes, to fight,” Sansa declared.

“Surely they are from Braavos,” Redwyne remarked.

“They can be,” Sansa shrugged, watching as Tyrion neared toward them. “They can be from Braavos, bearing the aid we need. Or they can be bearing hostile forces. Remember Lord Redwyne, we are vulnerable. We’ve just declared it to the world.”

Redwyne nodded and rushed away. Sansa stood there, watching the man depart. Watching as Tyrion exchanged nods with the departing Redwyne, as he neared.

“I still don’t think it was a good idea,” Sansa said coldly.

“I hear there are ships in the bay, your grace,” Tyrion smirked instead.

“Yes, there are ships in the bay,” Sansa shrugged. “Have you heard me?”

“I have, your grace,” Tyrion smiled. “You are the ruler; your role is to worry. I am the advisor; my role is to make things happen. We are both fulfilling our roles admirably, I’d say.”

“We’ll see how admirable you fulfilled your role,” Sansa turned, “When thousands of well supplied fresh troops reach land on those ships and attack us. We’re vulnerable.”

She walked away. Tyrion followed mere moments later, trying hard to catch up with her.

“We will be vulnerable,” he rushed, “Until we keep starving and living on rations, we will remain vulnerable. Something had to be done.”

“I told you to double the rations,” Sansa hissed. Suddenly she turned toward him. “Instead you went and planted this idiotic idea into Edric’s head, knowing how foolishly stubborn he is.”

“We couldn’t double the rations,” Tyrion countered, “You know as well, because you told me so. Your grace, there is no one more… rational, that I know. You knew we can’t do it.”

That was true, Sansa thought. She knew, she made all the calculations, and checked them, twice, then the third time. With all that the Reach and the Stormlands could provide, there still wasn’t a chance they’d last for longer than a year, and their rations couldn’t have been cut further – they were barely scraping by. People were anxious, on the verge of a rebellion.

“I am telling you again, double the rations,” Sansa declared.

“Why,” Tyrion asked genuinely curiously, “IF you don’t believe that Edric will succeed, why risk…”

“Because,” she crouched down to face him, “If there’s a rebellion, then we surely are lost. If there’s aid, it won’t matter. If we are attacked, food will make them stronger, and more willing to fight.”

She stood once more, watching as soldiers marched past to man the piers, just as she ordered. Redwyne men, she concluded to herself.

“Redwyne follows your orders to a tee,” Tyrion chuckled, and Sansa gave him a look.

“Don’t say it,” she raised her hand. She’s heard it before, if it wasn’t Tyrion making remarks, it was Redwyne himself, subtly trying to warm her to the idea. He’s had two sons. Sansa was unwed, he kept reminding her, albeit he never reminded her of his two sons, he’s made sure they were within her sight as much as they could be. Tyrion kept amusing himself with it, how Redwyne hoped one of them will win Sansa over – enough to end the betrothal to Humfrey Hightower, somewhere in Essos, if still breathing.

That betrothal wasn’t a secret anymore. It was one of the first things that came out after they found themselves without Daenerys Targaryen – or any Targaryens, Sansa reminded herself. No Targaryens, no dragons. They had to contend with themselves, as Tyrion has put it.

The task seemed harder than she imagined it to be. She often wondered if this is what ruling was about. At first there was the panic, for two days they were arguing, yet not deciding on anything. Essentially, they were arguing for the same things, like when everyone wants the same yet as if they spoke a different language, they cannot reach that conclusion. Someone always stood at council questioning why another would hold themselves to Jon’s orders now, that Jon was gone, and he was no longer king.

That’s when Baelor Hightower stood and said, they are all family. He’s family with Redwyne, betrothed to his daughter, and he’s family with the Queen in the North, betrothed to his brother. That shut up Tyrion Lannister for at least an hour. He only learned to talk again when Baelor pointed out, he’s Hand of the Queen. In the Queen’s absence, he’s in charge.

It opened up a whole new set of problems, that argument. Jon was named regent, his authority superseded Tyrion’s, but Jon was gone. Was Tyrion’s assignment valid? They voted and agreed, since both were named by the Queen, it was valid. But Sansa was also Queen. Tyrion Lannister had the sense to declare, her word superseded his.

By the time they reached this conclusion and agreed that – led by the Hand – they should continue with Jon’s orders, the first of the sick began to fall. It took them so swiftly, their bodies weakened by fight, by rations, the northern wolves began to fall to dysentery. Tyrion hastily arranged the camp to be moved. Then he arranged it to be separated – not north and south, but the sick separated from those still able to work. By the time they reached Harrenhal, the first shipment of the Reach caught up with them.

There was a period when Sansa wondered how many more will fall sick; how many more will die. She watched her own people ferried across – that she’ll have them here, not in the frozen North cut off from any aid was never a question to her, here they could be fed and protected – or so she believed. They couldn’t be fed – once the reports arrived, that became clear. Rations had to be cut, and people began to grumble.

It took three turns of the moon for them to settle, for the camp for the sick to be dismantled, burned alongside the last of the dead in it, and the maesters return to the Citadel. Hightower brought them to assist with the sick, and one glance at one of their faces could tell that they hated every moment of it. They weren’t missed.

By then, Edric Snow was on his feet, still weak but recovering. They celebrated weddings, on rations – Baelor Hightower made a statement by having Desmera travel to camp, wed her here, and remain in the camp. Much to Sansa’s delight, Jaime Lannister did the same, Brienne of Tarth was now a Lannister. Lord Reed liked that.

Reed was also on his feet – as much as that was possible. The little old man was nothing like the man who walked into the great hall of Winterfell with Blackfyre and Rhaegar Targaryen’s diary, asking to see the King in the North, but he was still a fighter. He walked leaning on a stick, when he walked – scarcely, it pained him greatly. Mainly he sat, head dropped back and eyes white, having the ravens do the scouting of the camp for him. But he was here, at least.

The same can’t be said about Jon. Sansa walked across the wooden gate to Maidenpool and made her way up the stairs, straight on to the rampart. Her eyes took in the sight of the land, countless Dothraki huts, wooden towers among them, and wooden sheds – halls where food was distributed twice a day, bread, cheese and all kinds of jams and butter in the mornings, and stew with bread and ale in the evenings.

“We’ve come a long way,” Tyrion said beside her, still trying to catch his breath.

“You could’ve stopped,” Sansa shrugged, “You don’t need to follow me everywhere, my Lord Hand.”

“Yes, we’ve come a long way from the piers as well,” Tyrion chuckled, “But I meant this.” He pointed out toward the camp. “We can make it through winter, you know it, your grace. But we need steady supplies, Edric has bought us those supplies.”

“At your behest,” Sansa hissed.

“You could’ve stopped him,” Tyrion smiled, “One order from you and he would’ve stayed. But you didn’t stop him. You allowed him to recruit, announcing to everyone where they were going and why. It was smart.”

“It gave people hope,” Sansa said lowly.

“Which is why it was smart,” Tyrion nodded, “The people need hope, the ability to see the end of our current state, just as much as they need to see their Queen every evening in those halls eating the same stew they eat.”

“I am not your Queen.”

Tyrion swallowed, “No, you are not,” he agreed. “But you are Queen, and when you do that, there aren’t only northerners around you. There weren’t only Northerners joining Edric either. True, Redwyne and Hightower forbade it, but Jaime hasn’t.”

“I ordered them to forbid it,” Sansa shrugged, “I told you. We need their forces here, to protect this camp, and to protect themselves at home, protect the caravans…”

Tyrion nodded. “I may join you for supper tonight,” he said after a pause.

“You join me every night for supper, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa countered, albeit she found that whatever angered her was gone. It was annoying, true, but she grew accustomed to Lord Tyrion’s presence. She gave him a faint smile.

“We make a good team,” Tyrion remarked smiling back at her.

“We do,” She agreed, “But I’d not marry you again, Lord Tyrion. Don’t get into that line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue!  
> Took a little break (due to my birthday!) and had this sitting half-written for a while sorry. I don't know how long the Epilogue will be, I have a story to tell that's not really "governed" by GoT but more of a tale after that I came up with. There'll be Jonerys in it, and there'll be Jonsa in it, so I ask everyone to please be mindful of others & their favourites in comments (like the last 40-50 chapters and the lovely all-get-along relationship - I love that!!)  
> On a sidenote - I may not post at a fast pace like daily, because I'm seriously contemplating the beginning of my 'other' story, which would make me write two at once, but I'm eager to start posting it (it's kinda half written for 10 months now! the first 25-30 chapters, just need to work on the start & edit a little on the rest). Are you interested in that?


	85. Epilogue - Lys I.

 

 

“This is fine ale,” Humfrey grabbed the horn, drinking half of its contents in one go.

“It tastes like piss,” Griff grinned, as he sat back at the table, dumping himself onto the bench opposite Humfrey, still tying his breeches. “Fine ale is what Reed’s folk brews. Gods, they brew ale in the camp, in the midst of war. Reed’s folk knows how to live.”

“I missed out on that,” Humfrey looked into the horn. “And I doubt you know what piss tastes like.”

“You were busy following the Queen’s skirt,” Griff laughed, his eyes wandering away, taking in the house. “And you underestimate the will of a drunkard to win a bet.” Humfrey’s eyes grew wide as he glanced up, straight into Griff’s nonchalant face. He watched as Griff began to scout the room, his eyes taking in every detail, attentive, focused to really see.

“It’s safe,” Humfrey remarked. “We searched it.”

“You always search it,” Griff nodded, “And still, there’s always something. Safety is relative, you should know that by now. It’s not a permanent state. Safe today is your death tomorrow.”

Humfrey watched Griff’s eyes scanning the hall. He got used to the lectures a very long time ago. As if he’s not proven that he had no need for them. He understood by now, Griff took him under his wings in a way. Not dissimilar to a little brother. Or a son. Since he could not take Ghost under his wing – no, he lost that opportunity the very first day.

 

The men were loud. The whores were even louder, their fake, or sometimes honest albeit exaggerated laughter filled the hall.

“What would the Queen make of knowing that her betrothed spends his nights in here,” Griff grinned, “With a whore named Liese in a city named Lys.”

“Liese is the redhead,” Humfrey corrected, “I didn’t have the redhead.”

“Liese the redhead,” Griff laughed, “I can’t see Liese the redhead.”

“Went to the back with Gorys,” Humfrey shrugged.

“You’re watching.”

“I am watching,” Humfrey grinned at Griff. He was always watching, and he was seeing, Griff knew that very well by now, Humfrey didn’t need to provide the details why. “I am watching where the blond is. What’s her name, Amara. That’s the one.”

“Don’t tell the Queen she was a blond,” Griff remarked, “Did you fuck her?”

“Who, Amara?”

“The Queen,” Griff’s face turned serious, “Speak true, did you fuck her.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Humfrey declared.

“Good,” Griff gave him a smile. “If I were you, I wouldn’t.”

“If you were me, you wouldn’t,” Humfrey chuckled, “Because she has two breasts and none… you know.”

“That, too,” Griff grinned, “But even if she was to my liking, I still wouldn’t.”

“For all I know she may be wed already,” Humfrey remarked.

“She’s not wed,” Griff stated as if he actually knew it.

“You don’t know,” Humfrey remarked, as if discoursing the weather. It was raining heavily outside, by the way, he thought of saying. “We don’t know shit about Westeros. If they live.”

Just as he said it, as if on cue, the door opened. He recognised the sparkling of the yellow hair, grin immediately taking over the corner of his mouth. He would not miss that anywhere. Cost him three months of payment he’s saved.

“By the Gods,” He sighed then, realising his earlier words and how meaningless they became the very moment after they were spoken. But Griff was oblivious, his eyes only taking in a scene Humfrey could only hear – some of the men were storytelling of the war, the dead. All the gruesome details of fighting rotting flesh. The girls were in awe, of course. They still didn’t believe any of it, both Griff and Humfrey could hear that through their awe-filled faint laughter and praising words.

“Look,” Humfrey nodded toward the door and Griff turned.

“Fuck me,” he stood as he spoke, “Davos Seaworth in the flesh.”

 

Davos looked around, taking in the scene.

It’s been a while since he saw a brothel, or even a tavern, an inn from the inside. And this was one fine establishment indeed. Apart from the usual, half-naked girls – and boys, here and there, after all this is Lys, not Westeros, he reminded himself – and of course the drunken men, he couldn’t not notice the fine tapestries hanging, the tasselled cushions on benches, velvet from what he could tell… Candles lit everywhere, in abundance, in fine bronze lanterns hanging from the ceiling and tall candle sticks all around. To his surprise, he began to consider whether that was safe. He concluded to himself, they must be fixed onto the ground, not to have them knocked over by drunken men and burn the whole house down.

Then he noticed them. They were looking at him, both of them, sitting at a far table by themselves, horn in hand. Their gaze dragged him back into the present, the reality that boiled his blood.

It boiled hotter by each day. In truth, it was boiling constantly by the time they set sail. Arya was a shit travel companion, Davos concluded after the first three days. She pushed onward hard, almost inconsiderately of his age, and weakened starved state, and to top it, she spoke precious little. Almost nothing in fact, and certainly nothing about Jon. He didn’t find out more about the cutthroats, the house Jon allegedly burned down using Rhaegal, the Faceless Men... not even the dispute of Myr and Lys with Tyrosh, such a nonchalance when compared. He knew of course what lands it was about, it’s not like it started yesteryear. He did wonder when he allowed himself what made Myr and Lys allies in this.

He’s been on the road for at least half a moon’s turn though he lost count of the days, they were all the same. He spent two more days aboard a ship, only to end up in a pillow house with drunk men of the Golden Company. He wanted to slap Griff. He even wanted to slap Humfrey Hightower, the change to the boy’s clean and lordly appearance not lost on Davos. He’s tied his hair in a manbun, no doubt not having cut it since he set sail to do that. Much like Jon, Sansa would like that.

No, she would not.

 

They stood, waiting for Arya and Davos to reach their corner table. Humfrey waved and a girl brought over a large jug, with cups. Davos’ eyes grew wide, clearly from disbelief, as he watched the almost completely naked girl pour wine for them – she had silver hair, purple eyes. She gave a bright smile to Davos.

“If you tire drinking with this lot,” she whispered, “My name is Rhenya, and I delight in older men.”

Griff chuckled, watching the girl leave.

“She thought you liked her,” Griff remarked to Davos.

“What in seven hells are you doing in a pillowhouse,” Davos hissed, his tone wiping the grin off Griff and Humfrey’s face both.

“It’s called a pillowhouse, Ser Davos,” Humfrey said, “Pillows mean bed. Bed in an establishment of this calibre means a feather mattress, which in turn means a slight chance at comfortable sleep.”

“That is, once we’ve done doing other things on the feather mattresses,” Griff added, “Come on, Ser Davos, we’re not in gloomy Westeros anymore. We fucking fight for this city, they’re looking after us in return.”

“There was a tear under her eye,” Davos remarked, “she’s a bedslave.”

“Used to be,” Griff corrected, “There are no slaves in Lys. Which is why we fight.”

“They freed the slaves?” Davos couldn’t believe it.

“That’s the trend of the moment,” Griff shrugged, “Wherever the fire worshippers preach, they preach that men are not property and should be free. Though, these girls seem to have liked it as it was, seeing that they chose to stay.”

Davos chuckled. “A very long time ago, before the war began, I stood on the cliffs of Dragonstone with the King. I explained him the same I tell you. If you know nothing else, there’s no choice to make but to serve. Free or slave, we all serve in some way anyway.”

Griff nodded in agreement.

“I’ve not told anything to Ser Davos,” Arya remarked then, “I explained why I had to fetch him, that is all. Did you fight?”

“There’ll be no fight,” Griff shrugged, “Whatever miserable company Tyrosh has hired has broken contract.”

“Again?!” Arya hissed.

“Shouldn’t matter,” Griff shrugged. “Our time is up. We won’t sit here indefinitely waiting for a fight. They bought six turns of the moon. It’s done.”

“It’s done when the conclave agrees it’s done,” Humfrey corrected, Griff’s eyes betraying not only his sudden anger at the correction, but also worry. Fear even, something that seemed to run deep. Davos still noticed.

“So, you have to meet with them,” Arya said out loud what they all thought of in that moment.

“They won’t end our contract for my asking,” Griff whispered.

“We arrived just in time,” Arya gave Davos a wide smile. A rarity he could’ve counted how many times he’s seen on one hand – the one that had no fingers, he thought bitterly.

“Where is he,” he asked, putting two and two together.

“Making good use of a mattress, I hope,” Griff shrugged, glancing at Humfrey who gave a slight nod.

“This is ridiculous,” Ser Davos said furiously, “We are starving to death, and you lot can’t get enough of Lyseni whores.”

“Tell him how ridiculous it is, Ser Davos, once you’ve looked into his eyes,” Griff scoffed, “Tell it to his face once you saw him and heard him just how ridiculous it is that he’s hiding in a brothel, while you’re starving.”

“His place is at home, not hiding in a brothel in Lys,” Davos argued. “Daenerys is gone, he’s the ruler.”

“And once he’s home?” Griff wasn’t to let it go, “He flies home with his dragon, declaring to everyone his whereabouts. What then, how many Faceless Men will set out to finish what they started? How many will we fend off before one gets through? You may find it ridiculous Ser Davos, but it’s dead serious. And if perhaps there’s the slightest chance of giving him some rest and making him forget, for an hour or two, I say he’s more than earned it.”

“You sound like him,” Humfrey grinned.

“He makes sense,” Griff shrugged, “I agree with him.”

Humfrey sighed at that. “So much for going home, then.”

“Are you homesick, boy,” Griff laughed.

“I would assume that is why Ser Davos made the journey,” Humfrey countered. “Why else would an old knight travel through Essos to find us. Why else would Tyrion Lannister Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen send him.”

“I volunteered,” Davos corrected.

“Of course you did, Ser,” Griff gave him a smile. “Let us be honest with ourselves, none of those pompous lordlings would be able to find the Company in Essos, let alone find HIM. It had to be you.”

“And did I?”

“Did you what,” Griff asked surprised.

“Find him,” Davos declared, “Find the White Wolf.”

Griff sighed deeply, but Davos could see his eyes travelling toward the back. Slowly, he stood.

“I wouldn’t,” Arya remarked.

“We all know he’s not fucking her,” Griff hissed. “Though I hope he’ll miss when he throws the dagger.”

“Perhaps we should send Ser Davos, he’s eager,” Humfrey chuckled.

“Or you,” Arya hissed.

“Leave the boy, Arya Stark,” Griff said sternly, “You may not notice but he’s on guard.”

“Humfrey?” Arya’s eyes grew wide, his lips forming a grin.

“You missed a lot,” Griff shrugged, while tucking his shirt into his belt. Testing his access to his own dagger. “The boy is the best. He sees everything.” He nodded toward Humfrey.

Humfrey nodded back. There it was, the acknowledgement, as much as Griff could give it.

“What happened while I was away,” Arya asked.

“More of the same of when you were with us,” Humfrey said lowly.

“An attack?”

“Two,” Griff corrected, clearly unwilling to make his move toward the back just yet. “Truth is, lordling boy here proved his worth. Cut down a… creature. I know not what it was for it was no ordinary man for sure. Its face was purple, and its lips black, and its tongue like a lizard’s.”

“And it was fucking strong as well,” Humfrey said, “I still bear the fingermarks on my neck.”

“Poor you,” Arya shrugged. Griff laughed aloud at the remark, at Humfrey’s face of objection, at Ser Davos’ of surprise.

“So be it,” he said as he turned. “If I don’t come back, don’t mourn much.”

“We won’t,” Arya concluded smiling widely, watching Griff disappear in the crowd toward the back.

“It’s not as funny as you all make it out to be,” Davos said.

“We all need something to get by,” Humfrey said lowly, his eyes settling on Davos. The old knight began to wonder, not only his hair style has changed. His eyes have, too. Dark circles underneath, he’s not had much sleep despite camping and not fighting for six turns of the moon. Waiting. It must be harder than fight.

During the war, they were constantly on the move. There was always a plan to execute, if there wasn’t, Jon made up one. They always had purpose. And where there is purpose, there is hope. For a change, at the least. Here, as he looked around, Davos concluded, there was no hope. Suddenly he felt the cold emptiness in the hearts of the men, not just his table companion but all of them. They were tired of waiting, not seeing ahead, not doing what they came for.

There was something else, too. Davos could see it in Humfrey’s eyes, behind the face of a man, not a boy. A man aged at least five namedays since he’s last seen him. Fear. The same primal dread he saw flicker through Griff’s eyes earlier. They were afraid.

Suddenly the words sank in. Jon was haunted, like an animal. Had he emerged, gone home, those who haunt him would follow. All of them would be in danger, they say that’s what Jon believes. Davos wondered if that was all.

“What happened to you,” He asked Humfrey softly.

“Life, I suppose,” Humfrey shrugged. “Fucking sitting around and watching out, you do it long enough and you begin to see them behind every face. You wonder which of the faces are only masks after a while.”

“And which kind of masks,” Arya added, glancing at Humfrey.

“You came wearing your own face,” Humfrey smiled kindly, “That’s a nice change.”

“You spent the last six turn of the moon here, like this?” Davos asked.

“More or less so,” Humfrey shrugged. “We first went to Pentos. Then caught up with the Company here.”

“To Pentos,” Davos raised an eyebrow.

“The house I told you about,” Arya explained, “Some magister I forgot the name of. Daenerys told the Wolf, the house is in Braavos. But Griff met the man, the man tried to hire the Company for Daenerys’ brother before. It was in Pentos. So we went to Pentos, only to find the man gone. Left in a hurry, too. Then Rhaegal came and burned it down. The house, I mean.”

“Why,” Davos asked.

“I still believe someone has forewarned that magister,” Humfrey remarked, ignoring the question.

“You’re not alone,” Arya whispered.

“What about your House,” Humfrey asked then, nodding toward her.

“It is not MY house,” she hissed. Davos only watched. “I am not one of them, when will you believe it.”

“We all wear masks, Arya,” Humfrey said, “I told you that before.”

“Whenever you try to pass yourself off as a clever man,” Arya shrugged.

“We all wear masks,” Humfrey repeated, “Only yours is more… unconventional.”

“And what is yours like?!” Arya raised her voice slightly. Davos sat back, expecting the two to surely embark on a pointless argument over what, he could not even tell. Philosophy of life.

“Boring, mainly,” Humfrey hissed. “Something to hide behind what I have seen,” he added, emphasis on “I”, as he also sat back, his eyes firmly set on Arya.

Davos watched as her face softened. Finally she sat back as well, but not before she reached for Humfrey’s horn, took it and emptied it. She had no horn for herself, the girl didn’t serve her.

“They should’ve learned by now to serve you your own,” Humfrey gave her a smile, “If they knew you’re a lady, sister of a queen, they’d stand in line to serve you.”

“They only know the masks I wear,” she shrugged, but in her eyes a spark emerged. There was a completely different conversation going on, Davos realised, one he could not listen in on. As riddled as their words were, there was an understanding between them.

They stopped speaking, both looking around the room. Their eyes alert, time to time returning to each other, as they sat. Davos could see keen alertness in Humfrey’s eyes. And something else, too, he noted to himself, whenever the blue eyes returned to the girl sitting opposite, there was something else in Humfrey’s eyes. Care, perhaps. Worry. Comradery, Davos thought.

They may have done nothing, but as doing nothing is much harder than constantly doing something, men’s worst treats and fears come to the fore. Jon spoke of something like that before, something about men ready to mutiny when they lose hope. Davos saw it for himself, in the camp, and Sansa fighting it every day, with little drops of news, real at times, fake more likely, about Jon, Daenerys, the dragons, spring coming.

At once there were even signs of spring coming, they all noticed and began to wonder if the dealing with the dead brought an end to the long and freezing winters. But it was a false spring, the snowstorm that came after blew it away like a candle is blown out in the wind and blew the last of hope with it. It became much harder after that. Lord Tyrion sought out Edric after that.

Davos sighed, as he also began scouting the room, slowly enjoying what he considered fine ale. Not as fine as that by the crannogmen perhaps, but it was finer than most. At least that was something to be content about. That, and the roof above his head.

 

Griff gently knocked on the wooden door.

“It’s me,” he called out.

“Go away,” he heard the expected response from the girl.

“That’s sadly not an option,” Griff said. “Someone is here. A Westerosi.”

He slowly pushed down the handle. Slowly pushed in the door, knowing well how disrespectful it was. Expecting the dagger fly, not because of not knowing who dared to open the door, but because of the intrusion itself by him who should know better. He wanted to see.

Sure, he said earlier, he’s not… but he wanted to see. And he also wanted to see him. He’s not seen him for weeks. Every time they returned here, he came, and every time he came, he was far less of himself. New scars, new tales of horror came with him, new fears for Griff.

He should be beside Jon, he told himself like he did so many times before.

And Jon for once should get on this girl. Just a little, an hour or two. To forget.

But he was Jon, he wasn’t doing such things. He was in a way turning into someone else, sure, but he was still Jon. Griff wondered at times if Ned Stark gave Jon the values he held himself to so tightly, or if it was himself imprisoning himself to duty so much.

And not only duty, there was something else too. Sometimes Griff wondered if it was regret of some kind, or guilt. In the rare times they sat together over two horns, and Griff watched the face of the man he firmly believed to be his king, still, he could see signs of deep guilt in those grey eyes. But again, Jon was Jon. He never spoke of any of it. He never complained, he never showed weakness. He didn’t even show anger anymore.

Griff stepped into the room. His eyes took a few moments to get used to the darkness, the heavy velvets were pulled in on the shutters, on the windows, and only few of the candles burned here.

It’s like a cave, Griff thought bitterly. Taking a deep breath, he took a few steps forward.

“I’m coming in,” he said aloud, wondering why he did. Was he afraid to be mistaken to someone he was not, really?

“I can hear that,” he heard a voice, unusually raspy, not at all like Jon’s. He heard shuffling, before a slender figure emerged in front of him.

“Myra,” Griff whispered.

“He’s in a bad shape, I warn you,” the girl answered coldly, as she always did. There were no feelings in that thin body of hers. There were muscles, the girl could fight like any man, Griff knew by now. His eyes began to look for another shape, as she passed by him.

He didn’t have to look much longer. The loud screeching noise of curtain rings on iron rails as she pulled a curtain, and pale sun streamed into the room, suddenly giving Griff all the view he yearned for.

 

Jon sat on the side of the bed, his back toward Griff, his dark curls loose, long to below his shoulders now. What caused Griff to step back was the marks on his back, on his shoulder. Burn marks.

“The fuck happened,” Griff hissed.

“Pig fat,” he heard the raspy, throaty voice once more. It was not Jon’s voice, not the voice he knew. Just then, Jon coughed, lengthily, painfully, jumping up from the bed to the pot beside it on a table. He’s spit blood. Griff’s heart clenched, as he watched Myra rush by.

He noticed her own burned hands as she handed a tiny bottle to Jon. Blue liquid inside, that Jon swallowed immediately.

He trusts the girl, Griff told himself.

He has to trust someone after all.

Griff still wasn’t completely settled with the fact that Jon chose the girl over any of them to stay with him. Not after he saw what she could do to a man. But that’s probably why Jon chose her.

“The Long Farewell,” Griff whispered, realising what the blue liquid could’ve been.

“You know your poisons better than I do,” Jon said, then he drank from the flask she handed him. Griff’s heart clenched once more, this time out of jealousy, he knew.

Then Jon turned toward him, finally.

“By the Gods,” Griff sighed. “You look truly miserable.”

“I look like a half-burned roast,” Jon gave a slight smile. His eyes were so pale, so lifeless. “And I was about to have my first proper sleep in half a moon’s turn, so this better be worth skipping it, Griff. A Westerosi, you say.”

“Ser Davos Seaworth.”

Jon’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing.

“In the flesh, sitting outside,” Griff explained, “Arya picked him up in Braavos.”

“And brought him here, of all places,” Jon said matter-of-factly, “How many cutthroats and assassins have they brought with them?”

“That, I can’t tell,” Griff shrugged, “It’s not like they stand in line to be counted.”

“Arya should’ve known better,” Jon said, turning toward the girl, “A shirt, Myra,” he asked kindly. He mouthed thank you as he took the shirt handed to him. Clean shirt. The girl looked after Jon better than any of them could, Griff reminded himself.

Jon hissed as he pulled on the shirt. Tucking it in, he attached his swordbelt. He glanced toward the leathers, swiftly deciding against them.

“It’s cold outside,” Griff remarked.

“Better the shiver than the pain,” Jon explained.

“I should treat them once more before we leave here,” Myra added, and Jon nodded to her.

“What was that about the pig fat,” Griff asked grimly.

Jon chuckled.

“Why tell you now,” he smiled, “If I could tell you over a horn of ale outside?”

“The ale tastes like piss.” Griff shrugged, but he followed Jon out of the room. The girl followed as well; he knew. The girl was like a shadow to Jon. Or like a saving angel, perhaps, Griff had to admit to himself.

 

Jon’s steps were fast and firm, much firmer than Griff expected. While he looked like a truly broken man, he surely was not, judging by his pace. His pace portrayed strength, and purpose.

Of course, Jon must be glad somewhere deep inside him for the chance to see Ser Davos. After all, he named the old knight his Hand once.

Suddenly he wondered if it was pretence. If Jon felt as broken as he looked, and merely put the effort into portraying himself as the leader he should be once he stepped out and into view of his men, who saw so little of him lately.

Men stood, as they caught sight. One by one, all of them stood, and fell silent. The girls stood as well, by now they were no longer getting surprised by this show of respect, as the men bowed their heads.

Griff shook his head. Fools.

 

Davos could see men standing in the corner of the hall, and more and more standing from their seats. The hall fell silent.

Humfrey stood as well, turning toward the direction they all looked, so did Arya. Davos understood, Jon was coming. The men still loved him. He waited.

Once he saw the men parting, he also stood, and as he looked back, he caught sight. His heart fell shattered.

“I know,” Jon smiled, “I look miserable, Griff enlightened me already.”

Davos opened his arms, but Jon shook his head. “I would give you a hug, my friend, but it’s not advisable under the circumstances. Not unless you mean for the men to hear me scream.”

Arya raised an eyebrow, as Davos glanced aside toward her.

“You are burned,” she declared, nodding toward Jon’s right arm sticking out of the shirt, deep pink, scarred and healing.

“More boiled than burned, I suppose,” Jon sat down beside Humfrey, giving space beside him still for Griff.

“You, and you two,” Griff called out and three men stepped forward. Turn around and stand guard, anything comes near you kill it.”

They did as told, and Griff dumped himself beside Jon, who hissed as their shoulders touched.

“Let’s not kill the girl who brings the ale, boys,” Jon called out laughing, and Davos could tell the men chuckled at the remark. They sat in silence, all eyes on Jon, shock, worry, pain, relief, care in those eyes. Pure misery in his as he took the attention silently. They didn’t speak until the girl arrived, handing Jon a horn.

Myra took it from Jon’s hand, and sipped from it. She’s put it back on the table, slowly. Davos could only raise his eyebrows that much higher at the oddity of the scene, but the girl nodded, before she also stepped away, turning away from their table. Jon finally took the horn.

“She tastes your ale now,” Humfrey remarked.

“She’s ran out of whatever antidote I would require next,” Jon shrugged.

“Pig fat, you said,” Griff remarked.

“Don’t speak aloud about it with Myra around,” Jon whispered, “She blames herself for it. It was three days past. I drifted off and when the pigs loudly began to claim the entrance of the cave, she thought little of it, that they were perhaps lost by some shepherd boy.”

“Pigs,” Humfrey asked curiously, “Like when they burn them in siege tunnels?”

“Yes, exactly like that,” Jon said, “Except this was not done to bring down a castle wall. This was done to burn us in the cave. Someone found the entrance of my cave. I woke to the sweet smell of roast, only to realise I’ll be the roast. We barely escaped climbing down the cliff on the other side.”

Jon glanced up at Davos, then Arya. “I would never take a cave with only one entrance. I am a fool but not that big a fool.”

“You’re no fool,” Arya remarked sadly.

“I am,” Jon laughed, “Soon after we are wandering, now in the open because well, someone has succeeded in getting me out in the open, and we ran into this girl, carrying one of those huge waterjugs. I asked her for water, gave her a coin. Fucking Faceless Bitch, that was, sure she was no little girl.”

“That’s foolish of you, indeed,” Arya grinned. “If I meant to kill you, I’d use the most innocent face I have. Everyone knows you have a soft spot for the down trotted.”

“You would be an old blind man,” Davos asked.

Jon chuckled.

“You had to take that face,” he said amidst his laughter.

“And it proved to be useful,” Arya said. “He can mingle in Braavos and anyone who’d recognise him will think me to be someone else. How you think I got to learn of Ser Davos and Edric’s arrival?”

“Edric’s here, too?” Griff’s eyes lit up, so did Jon’s.

“Edric survived then?” He asked.

“He’s well enough,” Ser Davos said, “But he’s not here. He doesn’t share my mission.”

“To bring me home,” Jon remarked.

“Did Griff tell you?” Davos asked.

“I am just a little fool, Davos,” Jon smiled forgivingly, “We established that. I can still put two and two together. Why did Edric sail with you, then?”

Davos took a deep breath.

“We’re starving,” he said lowly. “The Stormlands and the Reach supply four other kingdoms, or what is left of them. Sansa and Lord Tyrion try to hold it together but… it’s not enough, not gonna last us through winter. Edric brought his company.”

“He didn’t,” Griff’s eyes narrowed, “The fool!”

“We had no other choice,” Davos declared defensively, “Edric bought us supplies, he said he’ll enter the service of the Iron Bank, for a loan, paid in supplies.”

Jon swallowed hard.

“Just what we needed,” he hissed, “One contract finally ending, now there is another.”

“It doesn’t prevent you from sailing home,” Davos whispered.

Jon allowed himself an annoyed laughter. By now he grew far less reserved, whatever was on his mind could find its way out into the open, unfiltered, uncontrolled.

“In the past six moons, three sellsword companies have turned and broke contract against us,” he hissed, “We’ve not fought once. Now, what prevents Tyrosh to hire the Wolves against us, Ser Davos? They’re available from what you tell me. I mean not to find ourselves across a battlefield again, that one time was enough for all of us.”

“You told me you didn’t fight,” Humfrey said, aloud even to his own surprise.

“No, we knelt,” Griff grinned, “In any case, Edric and the Wolves weren’t on that battlefield. They were fighting the dead in the marshes. Unsullied and Dothraki were on that battlefield, and Lions, too. Jaime Lannister was there.”

“How does Ser Jaime fare?” Jon asked suddenly.

“He’s duly wed,” Davos smiled, Ser Brienne is now a Lannister.”

“I drink to that!” Griff raised his horn, and so they all did, and drank.

“Lord Baelor wed Desmera Redwyne,” Davos continued, and to that Jon raised his horn.

“One of my better ideas,” he chuckled, then they drank.

“I wish I could report more weddings,” Ser Davos said lowly, “Seeing how it makes you all so merry.”

“It matters, Ser Davos,” Jon said kindly, “There has to be something good in this fucking world, after all.”

“See?” Griff leaned forward to look across Jon, at Humfrey. “Told you, the Queen’s had no wedding for herself.”

Jon gave him an annoyed look, and he swiftly leaned back on the bench once more.

“She’s got no time for such things,” Ser Davos declared, “She runs the camp, sure with Lord Tyrion’s help, and your Lord brother stayed back as well,” he glanced at Humfrey, “And Lord Redwyne, too. But it’s the Queen in charge.”

“Tyrion Lannister accepted that,” Arya asked in disbelief.

“He suggested it,” Ser Davos said. “When Daenerys left us, we had to find a way to agree. I have to say, Lord Tyrion is quite the advocate of Jon’s orders, and provides useful support. He’s quite a… he’s quite efficient.”

“For his size, you mean to say,” Griff grinned.

They all laughed, somewhat half-heartedly for laughing at a dwarf-joke at Lord Tyrion’s expense, but regardless gladly, for the opportunity to share a laugh.

Jon was the first to calm.

“I am not going back,” he said lowly, but his voice was firm, the kind that indicated that their meaning was considered final by him.

Davos sighed. “We need you, Jon,” He said, knowing full well that the argument would be futile. “Your presence, you inspire the men. And the women and children. They still tell the tales of White Harbor. Their king on a dragon came down from the skies to save them, breathing fire on armies of dead. They need you.”

“They do,” Jon nodded, “I know that. I knew ever since Rhaegal appeared in Pentos. But I can’t, I would bring every fucking assassin the House of Black and White could muster. I would put everyone in danger.”

“You can’t hide for the rest of our lives,” Davos raised his voice in desperation.

“And you can’t catch them all either,” Arya remarked nonchalantly.

“I intend to do neither,” Jon said.

“Is there anything we intend to do,” Arya asked then.

“You intend to go home, with Ser Davos, Arya, and take Humfrey with you,” Jon said softly.

“You know that’s not gonna happen,” Humfrey said annoyed, causing Arya to laugh aloud.

“And I thought Arya will be the one protesting,” Jon remarked.

“Let’s just move on,” Arya said instead, “you know we won’t leave; we know you would want us to. End of story, not worth wasting breath over.”

Davos turned to Arya hearing that. The little girl has begun to grow up, perhaps. There was no drama, no outburst, just the same understanding that he noticed before as she and Humfrey Hightower glanced at each other.

“So, what will we do,” Davos asked then.

“Oh, so you stay now, as well,” Griff remarked, chuckling at Jon rolling his eyes.

“I may as well,” Davos said, “I said I won’t return without Jon, I gave my word. Besides, you may have need of me.”

“With your zero combatability,” Jon smirked at Davos.

Davos only nodded. Jon sighed, emptying his cup he pushed it aside to Griff. Griff merely nagged at Myra’s hand, standing close by, and she took the horn. She took Griff’s and Arya’s too, giving Arya a wink. She took all the empty horns. Soon enough she returned with them filled, but she took a sip from all of them before she handed them over.

“You’re getting quite cautious, Myra,” Griff nodded, “Thank you.”

“The boys would be sad to lose you, Griffinbird,” Myra said, “I hear them say.”

Jon chuckled, so did Humfrey.

“We make it to Myr,” Jon declared as soon as she took up her former position, “It is time to meet the conclave and get us released from this contract. Before any notion of the Wolves contracted to Tyrosh, I would say.”

“As soon as you step out of here, you are a dead man,” Griff remarked. “Your looks won’t serve you anymore, everyone of them knows what you look like, judging by your latest adventures.”

“Yes,” Jon declared, “They know a bearded dark-haired man. I need to change my appearance. I need to change my name.”

“I liked Ghost,” Arya said.

“It was foolish to use the White Wolf title, I think now,” Jon countered.

“Have you ever been to Volantis,” Griff once more leaned forward, asking Humfrey.

“Aye, I have,” Humfrey grinned, “They die their hair all kinds of colour, like Arya turning blond. To match me, I may add.”

“That is it, then,” Jon said, “I shall shave and die the hair some ugly colour.”

“Blue,” Griff said, “I used to die my hair blue.”

“I’ll be like a Young Griff then,” Jon laughed.

“There’s your new name, then,” Griff added. “Doubt though that it’ll bring you much safety.”

“I’ll be the young cousin who came to try his luck with the company of his uncle,” Jon said. “It can’t be too far-fetched; I think this will work better than some crazy tale.”

“I have only one question,” Arya said sternly, “Why in Seven Hells didn’t you think of this sooner?!”

Laughter once more took over them all.

“I said I am a fool,” Jon declared.

“But where will we go,” Humfrey asked, “After Myr, I mean.”

“Once I met with the conclave,” Jon began, “I mean to see to the end of this fucking plot.”

“What plot,” Davos asked.

“You are certain they’ll release us,” Griff added his own concern.

“No, I am not,” Jon turned to Griff, “Because I don’t think there’s a dispute.”

Their eyes grew wide.

“It’s a hunch,” Jon said, “Three companies have turned and ran. Say what you will, I doubt the tales of our fighting dead men have made them cower. Either they ran because that‘s what they were paid for, or there was a better contract. But a better contract, for three?!”

“I’ve heard once of an attempt of uniting some companies,” Griff remarked, “But it was a while ago. I don’t even remember the specifics; I was drunk mind you when I was told the story.”

“It’s a possibility, I agree,” Jon said, “But who can pay them all enough to break contract?”

“The Iron Bank,” Humfrey said, “I don’t think there’s that kind of gold anywhere else.”

“Unless you’re a Lannister,” Arya said bitterly.

“Not anymore,” Humfrey grinned, “The Lannister mines were dry for years before the wars in Westeros began even. Only Lord Tywin did well hiding it. But we knew for a while now.”

“How,” Arya asked genuinely curiously.

“Old Town knows a great deal, thanks to the Citadel, Arya,” Humfrey remarked. “My brother would not look kindly for my sharing, but suffice it to say, information has its price too. It’s available to trade, if you know how, and my father knew well.”

“It is true,” Davos said lowly, “The Queen asked for Ser Jaime’s aid, in an attempt of amassing some gold as payment for supplies. Ser Jaime had to tell her that Casterly Rock is poorer than the North now that it has been ravaged by the dead. Lannisport has been burned, most of their ships are lost. Part of the reason why we cannot trade enough. Old Town cannot bear the load required.”

“The intricacies of ruling,” Griff remarked, “In my short time knowing the Queen, I found her most suitable to dealing with such things.”

“She can’t miraculously find gold in those mines or build ships from nothing,” Jon said sadly.

“Which is why Lord Edric took his company to Essos,” Davos nodded.

Griff’s eyes suddenly lit up with realisation. “Humfrey is right,” he declared, “The Iron Bank we were indebted to, and we were sent here and made to sit around, either by design or by accident. The Iron Bank has the means to buy any company out of a contract against us.”

“Are you saying they are protecting us,” Arya asked stunned, “Protecting Jon?”

“Perhaps looking for favour with a Targaryen riding a dragon?” Davos remarked.

“They also have the Wolves now,” Jon said instead, his voice more doubtful than the rest. “What an irony it would be if they pitched them against us.”

“I like the idea of them not wanting to cross the man who defeated death itself,” Humfrey smiled, nodding toward Davos, who returned his smile.

“That’s because you always see the positive side to things,” Griff declared to Humfrey. “The Bank also has the House in service, do not forget. Who does the House hunt ever since we arrived? If they were so protective of Jon, why would they allow a contract on his head?”

“It’s not like Jaqen declares to the world every name he’s given,” Arya hissed, “Perhaps they don’t know.”

“The Bank knows everything, Lady Arya,” Griff shook his head.

“We won’t find out the truth sitting here,” Jon said, and emptied his horn. “I may as well return to sleep. Griff would you mind staying guard for me tonight. I mean to sleep, Myra needs sleep as well.”

“You want an old man to save your ass,” Arya remarked.

“Aye,” Jon said as he stood, And Griff stood as well to let him out. He was already whispering to the men, arranging guard for Jon’s door while he’ll be on guard in his chamber just as he requested. “And you, I mean for you to be there as well. Humfrey will stay here and watch, he can recognise them just as well as you can.”

“It’s not like I meant to do anything else,” Humfrey said, “That was the plan all along.”

“Good,” Jon sighed. For a moment, he turned into more of a boy, perhaps like the boy all those years ago who took to the Kingsroad, parting with Ned Stark at the crossroads, his heart set on joining the Nights Watch. “I need sleep, I mean it.”

He turned and walked away, without a further word to Davos, or anyone else. Davos stood to allow Arya out, who rushed after them, then it was only him and Humfrey. The guards left, the girl with the horns returned. None tasted the ale before they’ve been handed the horns.

“He’s grown rougher,” Davos sighed, “As if that was possible.”

“Don’t worry, Ser Davos,” Humfrey smiled. “I’ve not known him before the fight at Kings Landing, but I’ve known him since. I don’t think he can be much different to what he once was, under all those layers of dirt.”

“Not dirt, Humfrey,” Davos whispered. “Pain. Layers upon layers of pain.”

Humfrey merely nodded, as he took to his cup, his eyes already scouting the room, keenly, attentively. He meant what he said. No one will disturb Jon’s sleep tonight, if he can help it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the extra long hiatus... Life does get in the way (training and exam + 2 assignments done + setting up a company + looking for my next contract + changing my car & doing home decoration all at once)
> 
> Also a form of "writers block" did get in the way, too, I was a bit drained and uninspired. This chapter sat half written since October, I hated it. I rewrote that half now, and completed the chapter, to one I like much more. 
> 
> On a different note, I did begin my LoTR AU story as well before my 'hiatus', go have a read of the two chapters I posted if you're interested (posted under the same name, it's called "Gilith Fervain"). There's not much there yet, just like I did with this story, I'm starting it from an existing storyline (the happenings in the hobbit) and it would need one more chapter before it takes off into its own.
> 
> From now I will post when I'm inspired so there's no pressure (none's pressuring, it's only what I feel not having completed something), on both stories I'll write when I'm inspired. Tho this said, I quite like where I am with this story now (again), so glad I sat down to write this chapter tonight because it inspired me. It brought back the excitement about this story :)


	86. Epilogue - Myr I.

 

 

This is ridiculous, Sansa thought to herself. She wondered why she allowed herself to be talked into such show. To avoid any more of Tyrion’s ‘clever words’, as the dwarf regarded his reasoning, no doubt. Sansa regarded it as nagging. Trying to change her ways.

This was pointless. She glanced at Tyrion, wondering if he realised the same, or was immersed in one of his usual delusions – the times when he was so sickeningly optimistic, he even managed to elaborately detail just how well and fine things will turn out eventually. IF only they endured for a little longer. Sansa hated it. Why not just admit to reality, what they are, and stop the pretence?

But Tyrion’s face betrayed no such thoughts. Instead, she could see the same gladness as the one sitting on the cheeks of Lord Redwyne, and both his sons beside the Hand, and as she glanced to her other side, the same could be seen about Lord Baelor, and even more so of Desmera and Alys Karstark. The two young women became inseparable. Sansa was glad that there was at least one other northerner standing here beside her, it made her feel less of an alien in the company of these Reach-people. And the Hand.

So here they stand, awaiting some emissary. The messenger arrived in the morning, disgust on his face, relaying the message of the ships’ origin as well as who else they carried besides the supplies Edric has bought and sent. Sansa argued for the futility of such a show, any man setting foot on land here will see their miserable state immediately, no need to pretend that they were otherwise than miserable. But Baelor and Redwyne both voted to keep up pretences. So here they were all standing, in whatever best attire they could find, watching the ship dock. Awaiting said emissary.

She watched as the man appeared, tall and slender, short haired and middle aged, yet climbing down the ladder on the side of the ship with unusual ease despite the long robes he wore. Long and elaborate, expensive silk and embroidery, Sansa could see. There was a time when she would’ve admired it, coveted the fabric to create a gown that’d surely surpass the beauty of the robes the man wore.

There was no sign of disgust on his face as he reached the ground, turned and looked around. Noticing them, he swiftly walked off the pier straight toward them, gentle smile sitting on his face. But his eyes were cold, Sansa couldn’t help but notice, as they were piercing her, and her only. The man made his way straight toward her, bowing deeply.

“Your Grace,” he spoke softly, respectfully, “My name is Tycho Nestoris, I am delighted to finally meet you face to face.”

Sansa merely nodded. Clearly, she had no need to introduce herself. But the name rang a bell. Edric mentioned it before he sailed, the last time the two of them sat together – one of those rare times they could do so without the company of the Hand – Edric has warned her. Beware of Nestoris, Your Grace, if he chooses to visit you. The man is sinister.”

The man is sinister, Sansa repeated to herself, watching as the man looked behind himself, his arms reaching toward the rows of ships awaiting to dock. He was balding heavily, she chuckled. The man is sinister, she straightened her face.

“As you see, we have come to fulfil the contract made with the Company…” she turned back, apologetic smile on his face once more, “The Wolves. I’ve been told they changed name; I apologise. The first of ten shipments over that many months, Your Grace. We have brought grain, various meat and spices, furs and wool, coal as well as four dozen cows, five dozen sheep. Edric… Lord Edric was adamant to point out that you wanted livestock, just as well.”

Sansa nodded once more.

“Ten shipments over ten months, you say,” she spoke clearly.

“We had a contract awaiting fulfilment, the Wolves’ offer of service was much needed by the Bank, Your Grace, and we chose to pay generously. After all, we are here to establish our future relation, a fair and generous agreement is but the best way to achieve that.”

Sansa didn’t respond. Ten months, Edric will be away for ten months then, she understood, and their best fighting force will be gone for just as long with him. She relied on Edric, she missed the man and his straight-forwardness, the frank and grounded views he shared with her. Such a much-needed change to the delusional optimism of everyone else around her. Even Reed. She glanced aside. Where was Meera Reed, she wondered.

“We thank you for the swift delivery of this first payment,” Tyrion stepped in and spoke to fill the void by her silence. Nestoris nodded with a smile in return. The silence returned, as Sansa watched Nestoris look around once more.

“Westeros seems indeed different the last time I saw it,” he said. “Though of course, I alighted at Kings Landing that time, not Maidenpool.”

“You treated with my sister,” Tyrion remarked.

“You sold the Golden Company to her,” Sansa added sternly.

“I came to collect a debt, which I did,” Nestoris corrected, “Successful repayment of a debt is always good ground for further relations in business.”

“Repayment,” Sansa hissed, “That is what some call the sacking of Highgarden and the Reach and the murder of Lady Olenna Tyrell.”

“How the debt is repaid isn’t within the control of the Iron Bank, Your Grace,” Nestoris said apologetically, “Not unless we have to resolve to collect the payment.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, sensing a threat.

“Which in the case of Westeros seem to be of no concern, I may add,” the man gave him a wide smile. “I must admit, the ways with which you deal with business are more to our liking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Sansa hissed.

“We had a visit from a King once, Stannis Baratheon. He offered promises, and of course, spoke of threats and the like, dead men rising…” Nestoris spoke, “More of the same really, We’ve had overtures before that, Mace Tyrell, Petyr Baelish, even Viserys Targaryen made overtures for a loan once with nothing but promises to repay it with.”

“In your case, you offered payment upfront,” Nestoris bowed his head to Sansa, “A payment much to our benefit, as I noted earlier. We’ve had clients and deals eagerly waiting for fulfilment, and your contract allows us to continue pursuing other relations which we are much grateful for. The establishment of a fruitful relationship, your grace. The Iron Bank is always keen to explore new ventures, and a venture such as rebuilding after such a gruesome war during the time of winter is a noble cause. We advocate it, Your Grace, proud to be able to be of your assistance in establishing your rule.”

“If your hopes are high for Westeros returning into debt, I must crush such hopes upfront,” Sansa responded, her eyes piercing those of the man as she spoke.

“All the better, for all of us,” Nestoris nodded. “We’ve grown weary of lengthy debts lately. And yet we could sense a change in how you conduct business, when the Golden Company returned into service. Honouring agreements is more important than gold, one’s word is worth more than one’s wealth in business, Your Grace.”

“What other choice did they have,” Sansa hissed, “It’s not like Cersei paid for them, according to the Bank.”

“No, she has not,” Nestoris agreed. Sansa watched as men began to unload the ship behind Nestoris, she couldn’t help but notice the slaves who worked alongside the frail Westerosi.

“Truth be told, we were weary of the Lannister Queen,” Nestoris spoke, “Of her ways, as you also pointed out, Your Grace.”

“Of course you would say that now, to my face,” Sansa hissed, “Yet you sold the Golden Company to her.”

“Business is about taking risks, Your Grace,” Nestoris once more smiled apologetically at her.

“And what risks have you taken by entering into this contract with me,” Sansa raised an eyebrow.

For a moment Nestoris didn’t respond. She must’ve caught him off-guard with that question, Sansa realised.

“Of course, you are welcome to stay as our guest for as long as you choose to stay, Ser,” Tyrion stepped in once more, to Sansa’s annoyance. She was curious of what answer the man would’ve mustered had he not been saved by an over-eager Hand.

“Don’t expect much,” Sansa hissed, “We bought supplies. We won’t be feasting just because you chose to see with your own eyes, why.”

She turned and walked away; she could hear Tyrion gasp as she did. She could hear the boots of Lord Baelor, the shushing of skirts of the ladies. She could hear the Redwynes catching up, no doubt Lord Paxter was glad for her defiance regarding the Lady Olenna, she’ll hear of his gratefulness soon enough. She wondered if she should concern herself with Tyrion’s predicament to try and save the situation. It’s like Nestoris said – Sansa paid for the supplies that Nestoris brought. There’s no need to sweettalk the man, she’s not indebted to the institution he represented. Edric made sure of that. She sighed at the thought of Edric and the Wolves, once more having to fight in a foreign land. It was still a heavy price to pay for the survival they bought.

 

*****

 

“She speaks straight,” Nestoris remarked, looking at Tyrion watching the Queen rush away.

“She’s certainly not my sister in that regard, either,” Tyrion sighed. “You’ll find Northern manners somewhat lacking; I am afraid.”

“Should be rather refreshing,” Nestoris chuckled, “I find that our relations with Westeros were for long in need of a straighter approach.”

Tyrion motioned with his hand toward the direction the Queen walking away, indicating to follow, and so they set out toward the camp under Maidenpool.

“The Queen gave orders to prepare a room for you at Maidenpool,” Tyrion began as they walked, “She forbade any feasting that is true, but there’s a feather mattress and a hot bath awaiting. How long do you intend to stay, if I may ask?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Nestoris glanced toward him. “It depends.”

“Depends on what, exactly,” Tyrion narrowed his eyes, his mind alert.

“Depends on how successful our relations turn out to be,” Nestoris remarked.

Tyrion didn’t respond. For once, she gave it to Sansa, she was right when she said earlier, this is simple. They paid; the Bank delivers. He began to wonder by what measures that successful relation will be judged, then. What did he not know?

“It’s not like it’s the first time I came across Northern manners, I believe,” Nestoris spoke nonchalantly.

“You met Jon, I take it then,” Tyrion’s answer was just as nonchalant, albeit he judged their conversation now to be anything but.

“He’s the leader of the Golden Company, after all,” Nestoris reasoned, “The leader treats with the client. He came to enter the company into service after that unfortunate failure of your sister to pay, and our generosity to have already paid the Company on her behalf. You see, someone always pays. It matters little to the Bank who and how. Promises, Lord Tyrion, have lost their worth. If your sister petitioned the Bank now, she’d receive no assistance. We learned.”

“She won’t petition anyone,” Tyrion sighed, “I hear she died not once, but twice over.”

“I hear the little girl by Jon Targaryen’s side killed her,” Nestoris smiled, “But not before your Lord brother did. I am quite curious to hear more tales of these dead men.”

“Then you’re in luck,” Tyrion chucked. “Those tales are perhaps the only thing we are in abundance of. Besides the snow.”

 

*****

 

“I doubt that walking by yourself is safe,” Humfrey stepped out from the shadow, just as Arya reached his hiding place.

“I doubt standing still in the shadows is much safer,” Arya remarked. “I doubt even more that your company could make my walk any safer.”

“Oh, so you want none of my company,” Humfrey grinned. “Go walk by yourself, then. I take the other way.”

He did as he said, beginning to slowly walk away.

“Humfrey,” Arya turned and called out, just as he expected. He turned back toward her, and she nodded for him to join her.

“My sister wouldn’t take kindly to your manners,” she said as he caught up with her once more, and they continued on her path.

“Your sister is the Queen,” Humfrey remarked lowly, “she shouldn’t take kindly to anyone speaking to her like that.”

“Except her husband,” Arya corrected.

“I don’t think a husband should treat a wife the way he treats his mates, Arya,” Humfrey said softly.

“Well that’s refreshing to know,” Arya chuckled. “She’s had worse than you.”

“I heard,” Humfrey began to wonder why all of a sudden, their conversation turned to Sansa. They never spoke of Sansa. They shared stories of Braavos, trainings – by now they discovered their shared past in the form of a dancing master, as Arya called. They put two and two together, they figured that Sirio went to Kings Landing to heed Ned Stark’s invitation when he left Hightower, telling Humfrey there was nothing more he could learn from a master. That now he must begin to learn from life itself.

“Why are we speaking of your sister,” he asked.

“Why not,” Arya scoffed. “You ought to know a thing or two about her if you want to wed her.”

“I’d rather learn those things myself, Arya,” Humfrey said. “In any case, we are still here. It’s like you said, won’t leave soon, not until whatever we are to do here is done.”

“Don’t you wonder about it,” she asked then, glancing aside at him. Up at him, he was tall, she smiled once more. Though it wasn’t hard to be much taller than her.

“Wonder about what,” he asked, as if he didn’t understand.

“Westeros, what life will be like when we returned.”

“I don’t,” Humfrey said. It was a lie, but he wasn’t feeling ready to also talk about it. “I wonder about them though, I did. I used to wonder how they live, if they established that camp, if they get on well. Got some clarity from Davos’ appearance that I didn’t need, I suppose.”

“You hoped they fared better,” she said softly.

“I did,” He sighed, “I’m sure you did as well.”

“I know better than that,” Arya remarked.

“You like to point out how much better you know than me, Arya,” Humfrey grinned.

“What’s that to mean,” she asked.

“I see behind it,” He whispered. “Give it a thought sometime.”

She sighed. She will, because she already did before, not just once. They walked in silence for a while.

“I may not return,” she said then.

“You want to sail west,” Humfrey smiled, “What’s west of Westeros, you want to see. Didn’t a Stark try that before you?”

“And never returned,” She gave him a wide smile. “But I know better than that, too. I just want to see the world. Besides, who knows, perhaps he found land. Perhaps there are Starks in some foreign land we know nothing about.”

“Perhaps, and they share none of our predicaments, living in their lovely isolation,” Humfrey chuckled, “Thought you said you know better.”

 

*****

 

“How did it go,” Griff could hear the voice in the dark as soon as he entered, Jon’s voice.

“As you expected,” he declared, “Why sit in darkness all the time?”

“I like it,” Jon said, but a moment later Myra pulled on a curtain, and pale light streamed in. Griff studied Jon.

“Gods you look nothing like yourself,” he laughed.

It was true. Myra shaved the lower half of Jon’s head, the curls he used to leave loose, and dyed the rest in a vivid shade of blue. Gone was the beard, too, and he would’ve looked like a boy with a funny manbun if not for the intricate drawings around his eyes, and on his neck, disappearing in his shirt. Much like tattoos, but Griff doubted Jon would allow his face and neck to be tattooed. Or hoped he would not allow it. Intricate flames around his eyes and neck matching the crimson of the cloak he wore.

“You’ve done a fine job, Myra,” Griff smiled, “He looks more like fire worshipping sellsword Volantene, then a Targaryen.”

“We thought the fire worshipping could work,” Jon said instead, as Myra began to collect his old leathers.

“Not that,” Jon called out, as she was about to throw his shirt and overcoat on the fire. “Sansa made those, I could never…”

She merely nodded.

Griff raised an eyebrow.  We all need a form of connection to home, he concluded. He kept old letters. Jon keeps old clothing. And that ribbon, Griff’s eyes travelled to his wrist. Sure enough, the ribbon was there. It got washed as well, no doubt, it was once more colourful, if a little faded.

“I’d much like to study that ribbon once,” he said, And Jon smiled. Untying the ribbon, he handed it to Griff.

“The dead come, and here you are with wolves, Winterfell burns and you fight the Night King, then you are crowned King…” Griff ‘read’ the scenes on the ribbon. “I like it.”

“She made it before the war began, Griff,” Jon said, “She knew Winterfell will burn. I never liked that. How… factual she could be at times about such things.”

“Well you better learn to like factuality,” Griff handed the ribbon back to Jon as he spoke, “It’s one of the greatest values in a King. And you’re a King. See it on the ribbon, even Queen Sansa agrees with me on that.”

“I’m a sellsword volantene who worships the firegod,” Jon shrugged, not without a smile, “You said so yourself.”

“For now,” he said. “You look rather good, though, I must add. Were you a bedslave, I would choose you.”

“Griff!” Jon laughed, “That’s a shit compliment to me.”

“Yea, it was,” Griff laughed, “But it was funny. See, you are laughing.”

Jon came over and sat down at the table, motioning for him to sit. “Tell me how it went.”

“They didn’t want to see me,” Griff began, “They wanted the leader. Then they saw me, and didn’t want to end our contract. Just like we expected.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure they believe you are dead, Jon,” Griff sighed. “I told them of the Long Farewell, some little girl with a jug and your cave burned out with pigs and you barely escaped, you bought water… all of it. I told them you came to the meeting then your nose began to bleed, soon you were spitting blood and collapsed. We had no antidote. That one got to you, I told them.”

“And?”

“They asked if I saw your body,” Griff said, “And by Gods, I cried. I told them I held it and I burned it, like is your custom, I burned Rhaegar’s son. Only then they decided to hear me out about the rest.”

Jon nodded, his hand reaching out to take Griff’s. “I’m not dead yet, Griff.”

“No, you’re not,” Griff sighed, “But it doesn’t make it easier to imagine, considering your dancing around death for so long now. Sooner or later one gets through in a way we can’t foresee, one is all it takes.”

“Which is why I look like a clown now,” Jon smiled.

“I still don’t think they fully believed me,” Griff said, “And they asked what I’ll do with the Company now. And,” He stood, unbuckling the swordbelt on his waist. “This belongs to you. You were right, they did study the hilt.”

He laid Blackfyre in front of Jon on the table. Jon didn’t take it.

“I’d say, wear it for a little longer, Griff,” he said instead, “We must convince them.”

“Convince the concave of your death?” Griff asked in disbelief, “What does it matter what they think? They released us in the end.”

“In the end,” Jon said lowly, “After they heard the story of my death, and studied the ruby by your side.”

“I’m too thick to understand your half-sentences,” Griff laughed. The door opened; Ser Davos walked in.

 

*****

 

“I do wonder sometimes if Sirio is still alive,” Humfrey said.

“That’s because you’re a fool,” Arya laughed.

“You told me yourself,” Humfrey countered, “Even the Hound laughed at you thinking Sirio killed by Meryn Trant. Whatever his name was.”

“Yea and I still dealt with Meryn Trant.”

“If he was so useless as his reputation claims,” Humfrey reasoned, “He could’ve never defeated Sirio.”

“Sirio didn’t have a sword,” Arya countered.

“I’ve seen Syrio fight with that stick,” Humfrey argued, “Have I not told you? He fought Baelor and three of his mates, because Baelor criticised him teaching me with a stick. He should teach me to use a sword, Baelor said, not a fucking stick. Sirio beat the four of them and their swords with that stick, Arya. He could beat three Kingsguard like Meryn Trant with ease, I’ve no doubt.”

Arya didn’t respond. Humfrey looked at her direction, but Arya wasn’t there. Alarm. He drew the sword by his side as he turned, but there was no one behind him. Gods, the girl was playing with him again.

He turned and walked, as if nothing happened. Sheathing his sword, he left his hand resting on the handle. He took the steps slowly, his ears listening to any noise. And there was noise, in line with his steps, but not by them.

The girl was playing, following. But Arya would be silent, completely. This was not Arya. His blood began to boil.

He turned in an alleyway, deliberately taking the dark corridor instead of the road, where in short distance he could see the light of shops, taverns. He could see men outside. He needed the corridor.

His steps grew steady, settling to listening to the noise that followed. Shuffling. A cloak. Hard press on the dirt under the feet – those were boots. This was a man, a heavy man. A large man, not a girl, with confident steps. A man with a purpose. Humfrey passed the sole lantern on the wall, the little candlelight turning his shadow now to walk in front of him. It was what he needed.

Sure enough, the noise stopped. The man was no fool.

“Do you give up,” Humfrey hissed. There was a shuffling answer, shuffling of the cloak. He expected the sound of a sword drawn, not the shuffling of a cloak.

He turned and draw his sword in an instant, raising it to neck-level.

“Seven Hells!”

“That’s a neat move,” Edric grinned. “Much like Jon’s.” He watched as the sword lowered from his neck.

“Aye, I sparred with him one too many times perhaps,” Humfrey smiled as he sheathed the sword once more. “We heard you are attending other matters. Ser Davos arrived before you did.”

“I was attending other matters,” Edric said, the grin fading from his face swiftly.

“Then why are you following us hidden under a cloak,” They heard behind, as Arya stepped out of the shadow.

“I was hoping you lead me into a dark corridor so we can talk,” Edric glanced back, watching as Arya stepped forward, to stand beside Humfrey. “Preferably before you cut my throat, my lady.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” Arya scoffed.

“No, it didn’t,” Edric said lowly. “I meant to find the White Wolf. I hear there’s no more use. I hear his ashes are blown in the wind over Lys by now.”

Arya and Humfrey glanced at each other. Word travels fast, thank the Gods for those winds.

“What did you want with the Wolf?” Arya asked.

“That, is not something to talk of on the streets,” Edric hissed. “You’re not among friends. There are no friends in Essos, the walls have ears. Like the tales of Winterfell.”

“We better make it back unseen,” Humfrey whispered, and Arya nodded. They all pulled their hoods above their heads.

“Though perhaps this time, you could actually do it silently,” Arya scoffed toward Edric.

The man chuckled. “That was on purpose,” he reasoned, “I had to draw attention. Without drawing unwanted attention.”

 

*****

“I don’t see any good in this, Jon,” Davos sighed.

“It’s necessary,” Jon sighed. “For everyone’s safety.”

“Telling them you’re dead?!”

Jon stood, walking toward the window. He watched the drunkards on the street. Two men of the company arguing with a local group. About what, he could not hear. He didn’t care.

“Can you imagine what this will bring,” Davos asked, “Have you imagined? Sansa’s face when I hand back your clothes to her telling her you fell?”

“It’s necessary,” Jon sighed.

“Tell it to her after she cried her eyes out,” Davos sighed.

“I agree, Jon,” Griff said then. “You are overdoing it, like you always do.”

“Sansa won’t cry her eyes out over my death,” Jon turned back toward them.

“A lot may have changed,” Davos reasoned, “But I doubt that her…”

“She will know,” Jon interrupted, not wanting Davos to say it aloud. Davos had the notion of saying things aloud in desperate moments, things that were never to get out into the open.

“You tell me to take your clothes back to her, claiming you are dead, Griff burned your body,” Davos shook his head, “I think the clothing will convince her.”

“It will convince everyone,” Jon gave the old man a slight smile, “But not Sansa. Sansa will know, because if it was true, you’d take back more than just clothing.”

He raised his left arm, to show his wrist.

“Griff gave me the idea,” Jon began to explain, “I wouldn’t do this if I had no way to warn Sansa. But she’ll know, she’ll look for the ribbon, and when she didn’t find it, she’ll know.”

“Let’s presume she will figure it out,” Griff said, still in disbelief, “What’s the use of the whole camp believing you dead. They look to you as their saviour.”

“Do you think Lord Tyrion is that stupid,” Jon asked. “I agree, he somewhat lost his… edge. But he’s not stupid. He won’t allow it to be declared in camp, but those around them will know. That’s enough. If any of the Faceless moved against them, hoping for my return, they’ll turn around when they see them mourn. Just make sure they mourn. You can do this, Davos, I need you to. This is the use I have of you here.”

“To send me back,” Davos remarked. “Conveniently, if I may add. What will you do?”

“I don’t know, but we must make sure my death becomes common knowledge,” Jon reasoned once more. “I need to be able to live to do anything, Davos. I’ll go nuts if I hide much longer, I can’t do anything while I’m locked into caves and dark rooms.”

Davos nodded with a sigh. He couldn’t argue with Jon’s reasons, no matter how he doubted that they’d bring any safety for him.

 

“It’s me,” They all heard Arya announcing herself, before the door opened, and three cloaked figures walked in. Jon instinctively stepped behind a screen, seeing the three emerging in the room, before they could even see him.

“By the Gods,” Griff stood. “I recognise you even hiding under a cloak, Snow.”

Edric Snow’s laughter filled the room, as he dropped the cloak. He and Griff gave each other a hug, laughing. Jon watched behind the screen, fighting the urge to step forward.

“Ser Davos said you don’t share his mission,” Griff said as they parted, “That’s exactly how he said it.”

“I don’t,” Edric nodded toward Davos in greeting, “We are under contract. That is why I came.”

“You don’t mean to say you were hired to kill us, I hope,” Arya hissed, “That would be a stupid idea.”

“Yet you led me right here,” Edric chuckled, “So who’s stupid. But no, a contract like that would be easier to handle than the one I have.”

“Who’s the client,” Griff asked, sitting back, motioning for Edric to sit.

“I don’t know,” Edric said lowly, “I met with one man, an emissary, once. I don’t know much about the deal, really, but what I know tells me it can’t be good, Griff.”

“Then tell us what you know,” Davos said softly.

“The contract was fixed for us, when I spoke to Nestoris the deal was already sealed,” Edric began, “I was even surprised at Nestoris so willingly agreeing to my deal. Ten months of service, ten shipments to Maidenpool. Then I met the emissary.”

“Who is it,” Humfrey asked.

“It would’ve been convenient for him to give me his name,” Edric scoffed, “He didn’t. Tall and blonde, silver-haired much like Daenerys and eyes purple too, fine armour, gold and red cape and shirt underneath. Westerosi accent, but I couldn’t place it. I thought him a Blackfyre offspring but those would not speak that accent.”

“It’s better he’s not,” Griff remarked, “Essos is littered with folks boasting the Targaryen look because of fucking Blackfyres and Valyrian blood, we could never identify one from the rest. Like the girl in Lys,” he nodded toward Davos.

“The one who served us,” Davos nodded, “I noticed her eyes were purple.

“What else,” Humfrey asked then.

“Nothing,” Edric shrugged, “First time I saw the man, he was smug, he knew a lot about me though. About the North, and the Queen, he mentioned the Queen. Fucking offered her to me, meant to buy me off.”

“What?!” Arya jumped.

“Don’t worry, I walked out,” Edric reasoned.

“You are a fool,” Griff sighed. “You walked out of a meeting because it was not to your liking. Fucking Northern pride, you could’ve learned more if you cooperated.”

“And wouldn’t that have been more suspicious,” Edric hissed, “Me agreeing to plot behind my Queen’s back, selling my Northern loyalty to the first bidder?”

“If you put it that way…” Griff remarked, “But still, we are no closer to who he was.”

“What else,” Humfrey asked again.

“I told you, nothing,” Edric raised his voice, “Nothing about the man, funny hat he wore. Tucked his hair into it, but I could see it was blond. He had a longsword, but not one I’d recognise. Funny thing tho, he didn’t drink wine. That’s why I thought he can’t be Dornish, despite the gold and red attire.”

“Or he can,” Humfrey dumped himself in the chair in front of Edric, “Think. What else, what did he drink.”

“I didn’t taste it, boy,” Edric by now was truly annoyed.

“Did it smell like lemon,” Humfrey asked, ignoring him, “Was the man handsome? How long was his hair? Was he shaven?”

“By the Gods!” Edric yelled aloud.

“Answer the boy,” Griff ordered, “He knows fucking Westerosi the way you and I don’t.”

“He wasn’t handsome,” Edric stated, “But I don’t like boys like Griff, how could I tell. He had the nose like an eagle. And I can’t tell of his hair, told you he wore a fucking hat he tucked it into. But he was clean shaven.”

“And his drink smelled like lemon,” Humfrey leaned back in the chair, resolution on his face.

“I didn’t smell it, either,” Edric declared, “But something smelled like lemon. Thought there’ll be lemon cakes served or something, I remember that. There weren’t. Cakes. Or I walked out too early.”

“You know him,” Davos turned toward Humfrey.

“Ser Gerord Dayne, Knight of High Hermitage,” Humfrey declared, “I cannot be sure, but by the description he’s my best bet. He’s a true fighter. Worthy of the name he bears, I saw him fight once, at a tourney. In the melee, mind you, he didn’t joust. He’s a cruel man.”

“He had cruel eyes,” Edric nodded.

“A Dayne, you say,” Arya repeated the conclusion, “Of Starfall?”

“No, I told you,” Humfrey said, his voice soft, “He’s of High Hermitage. Related to Starfall, but not of the same. Dornish regardless, you got that right.”

“We’ve had messengers to Dorne and heard nothing back,” Davos remarked.

“There isn’t much to hear back, from what I know,” Humfrey added, “Though I know nothing since we sailed. But the Sandsnakes overthrew the Martells of Sunspear, dealt with Prince Doran and his son, both.”

“There are other Martells,” Davos argued, “I heard Reed telling the Queen, Daenerys, when she sought advice at Greywater Watch. Reed told her to wed Quentyn Martell. Or Jon to wed a girl, I forgot the name of.”

“Quentyn is Doran’s younger brother,” Humfrey explained, “Wed an Essosi, hence why he’s not so well known to those of Westeros. He’s got a daughter, Arianne, but that’s all I know of her. We thought he’ll reclaim Dorne now that he’s the heir to it. Did that happen?”

“Told you,” Davos shook his head, “We’ve heard nothing back.”

“What does it matter who the man was,” Arya scoffed.

“It matters more than you think, Lady Arya,” Edric said, “Because of what he ordered.”

“And what did he order,” Griff asked.

“The Wolves at Bhorash in a moon’s turn. That is ten days from now.”

“I don’t know where that is,” Arya said lowly.

“The Bay of Dragons,” Griff explained. “From there the road takes straight to Meereen.”

“Meereen,” Arya noted to herself, “Where Daenerys freed the slaves.”

“And the best candidate of all the places she could’ve gone to,” Davos added. “According to Lord Tyrion, she’s worshipped there.”

“So you wanted to find the White Wolf because you believe you’ve been paid to march on Meereen,” Humfrey summed it all up.

Edric sighed. “Yes, though I told you, I heard the tale of what happened to him. As much as I don’t want to believe it, I heard he had the Long Farewell. That the Faceless caught up with him, that Griff burned his body on a pyre.”

They all looked at each other.

“Word travels fast,” Griff sighed, “Thank the Gods.”

Arya chuckled. “That’s exactly what I thought when Edric told us on the street.”

“Thank the Gods!” Edric yelled in frustration, in grief. “Jon is dead, and you thank the Gods.”

“Calm down, my friend,” Griff said kindly. “We meant no disrespect.”

“Something that Sam Tarly used to tell me comes to mind,” Davos remarked, “Jon is Jon. He always returns.”

“Is that meant to comfort me,” Edric sighed, “No one returns from the dead.”

“Really?” Griff grinned, “You didn’t have the chance to ask Jon how he made it to Kings Landing, but we did. He died on the way, twice.”

“Once,” Arya corrected, “The other time he got trapped in Ghost.”

“That counts like one,” Griff grinned, “Being trapped in the body of a fucking wolf equals death in my eyes. He was dragging around his own body, while trapped in the wolf, until he came on the fire worshippers. One kissed him, and he rose. Then the Night King killed him, and another red priestess kissed him back to life. That’s dying twice over.”

“In Jon’s case, that’s three times dying,” Davos smiled, “He was stabbed to death at Castle Black, when he was Commander. The red woman brought him back.”

“Gods,” Griff leaned back in his chair, “Now I can see why Jon is so fond of the fucking fire worshippers. They keep saving his sorry ass.”

“They follow him around like a pride of wolf pups,” Arya laughed.

“They think he’s Azor Ahai reborn, that’s why,” Griff explained. “Fucking prophecies.”

“He did kill the Other,” Humfrey said, “One could say, he fulfilled that prophecy. That’s why they worship him. Besides the firegod, of course, but they worship him.”

“Now you all are just chattering,” Edric shook his head, “As if there was nothing wrong but the fucking weather. As if he was still alive.”

Griff turned toward him, wide grin on his face.

Edric stared for a moment, at him, then the others, grin on their faces. “Fuck you all,” he hissed. “Fuck you, seven times over. Where?”

 

Jon stepped out from behind the screen.

“Here.”

 

 


	87. Epilogue - Myr II.

“You have to agree, Howland,” Sansa sighed. Why, she couldn’t tell. She watched as Howland Reed slowly stood. Even slower, taking only tiny little steps he moved from the chair toward his bed, his mattress laid out on a pair of crates, and dumped himself with a slight whimper.

“You don’t care anymore,” She declared, as matter-of fact, merely noting aloud what she could so obviously perceive. There was no spark, no will in Howland Reed – the skinny shell that imposed as Howland Reed – as if life merely meant existence for him, every day meaning one less day toward the great unknown that awaited him at the end of it.

Reed let out a painful sigh. It wasn’t exactly physically painful. No, it was his heart that ached, the physical pain he felt, those trembling legs that carried him from the chair to the bed, stripped of their muscles thanks to dozens of cuts by crude weapons in the hands of dead corpses, they were by now almost equal to normality to him.

“It is not that I don’t care,” he said softly, without any sign of protest in that frail, thin voice of his.

“You’re disillusioned,” Sansa noted as if correcting herself, hoping her words didn’t cut the way she felt the meaning of them cut into her own heart.

“We fought to survive, Sansa,” Reed gave her an apologetic smile, knowing well that there was little apology in his words, that they’ll cut deep. In truth, he had no apology for them, they wanted out for so long that there was really no other way. He thought about it long enough these past weeks. There was no other way. “We gave everything, our homes, our lands, our lives, limbs…” Sansa glanced at Howland, the stump that should’ve been an arm, but wasn’t, not since Winterfell. Her gaze dropped onto the thin legs that could barely carry even this lightweight bony little man. He continued.

“Look at us now, look at the North, proud blood of the first men… we can’t even return to our lands, I know we can’t, I went and saw… What a dead frozen wasteland it is, ruins, only ruins! We don’t have homes, we live in Dothraki huts. Dothraki huts! On food rations courtesy of southern lords! And Jon, where is Jon? Where is the Queen who claimed she’ll make this a better world? Where are they?”

“Davos will find Jon, Howland,” Sansa forced a smile as she spoke, “Davos will bring him home.”

“This is not home, Sansa,” Reed scoffed. “THIS, is not life. What was the point? If this is how we ought to exist, then what was the point?”

Sansa raised her gaze to study his face. He’s aged at least a ten namedays if not more. He wasn’t the man he used to be, aging but agile, bony for sure but swift, both in mind and body, and wise, oh so wise.

“I think it was you who told me once that it’s always darkest before the dawn,” she whispered. “I need you Howland. I need the man who stood by my side, by our side, the man my father declared the wisest man in the North. I need your wisdom. I cannot do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Reed declared in protest, “You have Baelor Hightower and Tyrion Lannister to aid you. There’s not much to this, what need would you have of me. To count the rations?”

“I’ve just explained it to you,” she stood as she sighed, unable to hide her frustration any longer, “As much as I could. I told you, I need your advice. You are still Hand of the Queen, there’s an Essosi in camp, from the Iron Bank, exactly the man who Edric warned me about.”

She didn’t expect the response she’s got. “I’ll look out for the Essosi for you,” Reed said, as he slowly began the process to stand. Sansa wanted to protest, but the determination on his face prevented her, the fact that she saw such raw emotion on his face held her back. When did Howland become like this?

True, she hasn’t visited as often as she should’ve – mainly because she was indeed counting rations, she reminded herself bitterly. She was listening to complaints, the same complaints always, but nevertheless, she had to hear them out every time someone wished to voice them, and she had to be seen doing so. She couldn’t sit in this tent, and that was almost all that Reed would do. She couldn’t tell when Howland Reed broke, she realised.

He finally stood straight, facing her. For some reason, as if she never noticed, it registered with her how short he really was, even compared to a woman – albeit, she was tall for a woman.

His one hand reached to his chest, deep into the many furs that he wore to keep him warm, since there was no fire lit in his hut, since he refused the chamber in Maidenpool, something which Sansa still could not understand. He produced the pin, the bony fingers clenching to it even when he reached out his hand.

“I cannot wear this anymore,” he whispered, “I cannot be your Hand. I never should’ve… Take it.”

“Howland…” she began but the bony fingers indicated his protest, while he shook his head.

“I cannot be your Hand, not in this… While our children starve, and our people freeze, while we live like homeless beggars on foreign lands. I can hear their cries at night. While I see them in my dreams, I cannot be part of this.”

She wondered what if she didn’t take the pin. But the bony fingers began to release it, so she reached out, letting the pin fall into her palm.

“Go now, your grace,” He said, as he turned. Sansa could only steal one last glance of his face, his empty, watery eyes, as he turned from her, the sadness that sat on his brows as he began to prepare for what was surely another night of wild dreams and restless sleep for him. Listening to their cries, she repeated to herself.

She didn’t argue. She began to wonder what Reed could see in his dreams, as she turned and walked out of the hut. Swallowing hard, she resumed the mask of the Queen, hoping none could see behind it as she walked. She almost missed Tyrion Lannister rushing toward her on the path, even though he stopped right in front of her.

“I meant to seek advice from Lord Reed, Your Grace, if he…”

“Don’t bother,” she whispered, as she walked past, without stopping or even looking at the Hand of a different Queen. Tyrion could only catch a glimpse of the shiny pin in her hand.

 

*****

 

“Gods…” Edric murmured. Again. They stood for long moments eyeing each other, ever since he jumped from his seat at the sight of Jon, as if he saw a Ghost indeed.  Since that moment all he could say was, “Gods.”

“Have you lost your wit,” Griff remarked grinning. Edric looked around, at all the grinning faces, all of them except Jon’s. Jon’s face was solemn, almost sorry. And painted. In truth, Jon looked nothing like Jon, at all. He looked more like that big-mouthed sellsword he once encountered, his mind escaping now into wondering why exactly the man came to mind. He had a big mouth. He was a Second Son. Edric couldn’t recall his name, he wasn’t all that memorable. More annoying, frustrating. Edric felt the frustration of it acutely.

He turned, silently took the few steps toward the nearest screen standing, and slammed his fist into it, and again. It fell back, and he gave it a few more kicks, until not one pole in it was intact, until it was more of a pile of silk and broken poles. Until his fury calmed and realisation hit of what he was doing. Then he turned once more.

“Gods…”

“That’s enough, Edric,” Jon hissed.

“I wept for you,” Edric declared, “I fucking wept like a five-year-old, I believed it!”

“And that should tell you how others will feel, Jon,” Davos remarked, eyebrow raised as if an ancient, eternal truth has been spoken.

“Well, let’s just walk out then and wait until some cutthroat comes,” Jon hissed, “Let’s just declare to the world where I am until some assassin unleashes themselves on me. Poisons, spiders, weapons and hells! Pigs, even fucking pigs; what will it be, what do you think?!”

He dumped himself into a chair, his eyes full of the anger and the frustration he felt. He emptied the jug on the table into the nearest horn, then emptied the horn in one go.

“I understand why you did it,” Edric spoke solemnly, as he made his way back to his chair, and sat, right opposite Jon. “I truly do. The first thing I thought, when I heard the first thing I thought was, this was inevitable. When the man told me how they hunt you…”

“What man,” Jon looked up.

“That fucking Dornish, Dayne is the name you said?” He hissed toward Humfrey, “He told me, you’re as good as dead. Then I heard when I arrived, and I thought, aye this was inevitable if what he said is true, and I knew it was true, for I heard it on the road.”

“They hunt me,” Jon said, “Like some fucking animal. I needed it to stop.”

“Fine,” Davos stood, but he wasn’t leaving in the end, albeit, in the moment of leaving the table he wanted nothing more but to leave the room and in it, the group that he felt he really wanted nothing more of. He brought a jug from a table nearby and put it right in front of all of them. “Like the Lady Arya said,” he began, “You can’t catch them all, they won’t just stop.”

“If I am dead, then they will stop,” Jon argued, “Do you see now? Why I need to do this? We ought to talk about more important matters.”

“Unless Jon is now forever trapped in this…” Edric raised an eyebrow, “Whatever identity this is, the only way is to get to the bottom of why he’s hunted.”

“We ought to figure out who paid the Faceless Men,” Arya declared.

“We ought to find out who Edric’s client is,” Griff countered.

“There was something I thought, while listening,” Jon leaned back in his chair, “What if it was Dany herself. She had but a thousand Unsullied, she had no army. She had some sellsword company, Second Sons, in Meereen. What if she wanted to hire an army?”

“Why would she send the Dornish,” Edric wondered aloud.

“You think her to be in Meereen, too,” Davos remarked.

“Where else?” Jon filled his cup, “She’s Queen in Meereen. And she has a knack to attract the most unusual followers. She’s had Barristan Selmy in her service, even. Not to mention Lord Tyrion. She’s had the Queen of Thorns following her and the Sandsnakes, perhaps the Dornish merely follows through with whatever the Sandsnakes began in Dorne.”

“I think it’d be the word on the street if she was in Meereen,” Edric remarked, “I agreed with her Hand back at home, that’s where she would’ve gone, but now, I’m less sure about it. There’s no news of her being in Meereen, and the people would talk of the Mother of Dragons.”

“Then why is it a worry,” Arya hissed.

“Because it’s still hers,” Jon explained, “She’s Queen of Meereen. If she’s not there, I’d say someone is keen to take what is hers. This place, Bhorash,” His eyes were once more on Edric, “What do you know of it?”

“Trading port,” Griff answered instead, “Two days’ march from Meereen. If I would want to take an army to the Bay of Dragons, that’s where I’d alight as well. The people are diverse and sinister, slavetraders and hunters and the like favour it, they won’t care to warn anyone, especially not the Dragon Queen. She abolished their livelihood after all.”

“Where are the Wolves now,” Jon asked.

“Marching to Bhorash,” Edric sighed, his eyes firmly on Jon’s. “I had no other choice; I won’t cross the Bank.”

Jon took a deep breath. “What is it that you’re not telling me.”

“Just a hunch,” Edric poured wine for himself, “Something Nestoris said. He said, the Bank didn’t consider Sansa Stark worthy of consideration, perhaps they should’ve. He said the Stark Queen could yet prove quite valuable to establish relations with.”

Griff chuckled.

“I should understand that,” Jon asked sarcastically.

“I think he knew,” Edric explained, “I won’t take to this contract lightly, I think he knew. I think he’s prepared to me breaking contract, that’s what he was telling me.”

“Let’s see what we know,” Jon forced a slight smile on his face. The evening was turning dire in the extreme since he’s revealed himself. “We know now that those at home are not doing as well as we hoped. We know that we were made to sit around for six turns of the moon, which if I may add, made me an easy target.”

“We know that the conclave argued against our release,” Griff added, “Only agreed to it once I wept explaining how I burned your body, how they got to you.”

“We know the Faceless Men were hired before we arrived,” Arya added.

“And we know the Wolves have been contracted out to a client represented by a Dornish,” Edric finished.

“We also know,” Jon looked around the table, “That the House works with the Iron Bank. We know that our contract was brokered by the Bank, so was Edric’s. And,” He took a deep breath, “We know the Spider wasn’t working alone. Someone aided him, someone in Pentos.”

“Mopatis,” Griff remarked, “I thought we established that was Illirio Mopatis. The man with ties close to the Stag King having tried to hire us once before, who clearly supported Viserys Targaryen, also having sold his sister to the Dothraki for an army. Gods, he claimed Viserys will take Westeros at the head of fifty thousand Dothraki, and the company, if we join him.”

“We know something else,” Edric said then. “I do. I enquired, the Cats, the Windblown, the Stormcrows and the Shields are all in contract in the East.”

“How do you know,” Griff turned toward Edric.

“I said, I enquired,” Edric grinned, “The usual way, my friend. I drank with whores.”

“How many whores for that,” Arya raised an eyebrow, “Or did one list them all.”

“Not that many,” Edric laughed, “If you know which whores to pay, they talk of the right things.”

“I don’t think I can listen to this,” Davos sighed.

“Forgive me, Ser Davos,” Edric sighed, as well, “I meant no disrespect.”

“We also can assume some things,” Griff declared then, “We assume Mopatis is out there somewhere, and now we can assume to know Nestoris’ whereabouts, and, we can even assume who collects the companies, if that’s happening.”

“Enlighten me,” Jon scoffed.

“Nestoris is likely in Maidenpool by now,” Edric sighed, “If he’s uncertain of me, he would sail to Maidenpool. It’s not like he has no excuse, there are shipments, monthly. He would go under the pretence to meet the Queen.”

“One man,” Davos remarked, “A banker. Is there something to fear?”

“He doesn’t travel alone,” Edric explained, “He never does. It’s his travel companion I’d worry about.”

“As long as you fulfil the contract,” Griff spoke with whatever reassurance he could muster, “There’ll be nothing to fear there. As long as Nestoris believes that you fulfil your side of the deal, he won’t act. Most times his presence is enough for people to pay up.”

“Because his presence means there can only be worse coming after him,” Edric added. “I warned the Queen about him, in case he appears.”

“I thought the camp is at Harrenhal,” Jon said then.

“It was,” Davos explained, “But we had too many dead, in the end we burned that side of the camp. Those who survived were keeping distance, camping to the east, and we needed to be close to a port. Easier for Hightower, though they do use land caravans as well, but those get attacked. But ships are slower on winter seas.”

“I never imagined it’s this bad at home,” Jon stood, and walked to the window once more. The argument on the street, whatever it was about, was over, there was nobody on the street now to take his mind off his troubles.

“We lost thousands to dysentery,” Davos began, but Griff vehemently shook his head. “He needs to know,” Davos argued annoyed.

“No, he doesn’t,” Griff’s voice was firm, “He needs to figure out who wants him dead, Ser Davos, and he needs to kill the man, and anyone else who would move against him. It’s clear that those who oppose him are in Essos. Don’t tempt him to return home when all he’d bring back would be more troubles. It’d be war, Ser Davos, I am sure of it, do you think those at home are ready for a war?”

“I need to know who would have the Wolves march on Meereen,” Jon turned to face them, “If it’s Daenerys, fine. I’ll pay her a visit, and we’ll see to the bottom of why she’s left Westeros. If it’s someone else, then Griff is right – I am in danger, Daenerys is in danger, and the further we are from Maidenpool the safer for our people.”

“I’ll have to make it to Bhorash,” Edric spoke, “We all agree at the least that I have to fulfil this contract.”

“No,” Jon stepped back to the table, “You have to be seen as fulfilling this contract. They aren’t necessarily the same things.”

“I’m not following,” Edric shook his head.

“Arya,” Jon already turned away from Edric, his eyes on his niece.

“You mean to ask me to go with him,” Arya said, “I had other plans.”

“Other plans?!” Jon’s fist slammed onto the table.

“I plan to pay a visit to MY house, as Humfrey calls it,” Arya shrugged. They all fell silent.

“What good would that bring,” Jon scoffed, breaking the stunned silence.

“You’re dead,” she remarked, “If I am fast enough, I could find out more about who promised your name to the Many-Faced God. Perhaps I’ll promise him some names, too.”

“Thought you’re not one of them,” Edric sighed.

“I’ll go with you,” Jon declared.

“And what use would I have of you,” Arya chuckled, “Forgive me, but actually you cannot do everything. You’re the dead man, remember?”

“I want to be there,” Jon declared, “The Bank is involved somehow, I am sure of it, and so I want to go to Braavos. The Unmasking is coming up, it’ll be easier to mingle. I’ll be fine.”

“If I may point out,” Davos spoke with all the frustration this conversation caused, “You’re just sending Edric on his way, while you all go on your little hunt.”

“Not exactly,” Jon glanced at Griff, “I mean the company to be put to use.”

“Aye, I wondered if we should appeal for a new contract,” Griff said then, “Think about it, with Jon dead, the company has no other ties to Westeros, or Daenerys, or Sansa Stark... With Jon’s death the company lost its aim, wouldn’t it be just as well if we chose to do what we’ve always done. I wonder if they’d hire us out to whomever this Dornish represents. Then we’d resolve the issue of reporting back who the client is.”

“And we’d indebt the company to the Bank once more,” Jon shook his head, “No, we need to stay out of it. Whatever comes, our movements should remain hidden. It’s better if the company sails to Westeros.”

Griff’s eyes grew wide. “You cannot mean this.”

“Finally, a sensible thought,” Davos countered.

“I don’t mean to actually sail,” Jon said, “Sorry, Davos. I mean to be known as having sailed. Then we’ll disappear.”

“And how will you make twenty thousand disappear,” Davos asked.

“The Dothraki Sea,” Griff declared with a grin, “It’s not like Dothraki roam it anymore. It’s a nomansland, only vigilantes venture into it, and most get lost and starve. With sufficient provisions we could make it.”

“This doesn’t resolve my problem, still,” Edric sighed, “You mean to march across the Dothraki Sea, fine. How will I let you know who the client is, what orders I’m given?”

“I can do it,” Myra stepped forward. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Myra,” Jon gave the girl a warm smile, that didn’t go unnoticed by Davos. “Speak up.”

“All we need is someone in Bhorash, so the Commander can relay his findings. Someone who can disappear, I can disappear.”

“And you won’t be noticed in Bhorash,” Edric asked hesitantly, “Who are you anyway?”

“She’s with us,” Griff spoke instead.

“I serve the White Wolf.” Myra declared.

“No, you don’t,” Jon argued, “We spoke about this.”

“It is my choice,” Myra countered, “We spoke about this. You saved my life.”

“Not to have you throw it away in my service,” Jon remarked, “Besides, you saved mine five times over since.”

“It is my choice,” she only repeated. “I can do this. There’s an inn there, a brothel, right by the pier. Always looking for new girls, they don’t last long.”

“I can’t agree to this,” Jon shook his head. “It’s not like they won’t put you to work, Myra.”

Myra laughed.

“And what do you think I’ve been doing before you lot appeared,” she asked, “What do you think the scar on my cheek is. I’ve done worse. It won’t take long.”

“Who’ll watch out for Jon,” Griff asked then.

“You, Griffinbird,” Myra smiled, “Finally it’s your turn. And pretty boy, you should go to Braavos, look out for the Wolf, Griffinbird should go with his men. But if any harm comes to him, you know what I’ll do to you.”

“How refreshing,” Humfrey reached for the jug that Davos brought, pouring the last of the wine for himself.

“You found your tongue!” Arya laughed alo0ud toward Humfrey.

“I never lost it,” Humfrey scoffed in response. “I just don’t have anything to add. I’m listening.”

“Myra makes much sense, I must admit,” Jon sighed. “Arya, Humfrey and I set out for Braavos at first light, and you prepare Griff, loudly, to sail, because as you said, your contract is done and you have nothing to hold the company here, I’m dead. Then get out of the city, and make it toward the Dothraki Sea. As close to Meereen as you can, unseen. Myra will join Edric, once Edric met the client, all he needs to do is pretend to look for a pleasant hour, and report to Myra. Myra will then advise you. We shall join you by then.”

“There’s only one weak spot in your plan, Jon,” Griff remarked, “How in the Seven Hells will you make it across the Dothraki Sea. It’s not exactly the same as twenty thousand, and even if you survive it how do you intend to find us?”

“You forgot who I am,” Jon grinned. “We’ll make it, don’t you worry. We’ll find you.”

“What about me,” Davos asked hesitantly.

“I’ve already given those orders, Ser Davos,” Jon said as he stood from the table, “I haven’t changed my mind. You take my clothing home with news of my death. Let Tycho Nestoris see them mourn.”

“Why, Jon,” Davos was unconvinced.

“Because the Bank has a role in this,” Jon sighed. “The Bank has a role in all of it, including my destruction, I’m sure of it. Only a fool wouldn’t realise Sansa’s importance to me, I mean to make Nestoris believe that there’s no point.”

“Thought he’s there because of Edric,” Davos argued, “If he’s indeed sailed to Maidenpool. Is everything about you, Jon.”

Jon chuckled. “We shall see, Davos,” he sighed, “We shall see.”

 

*****

 

Baelor looked around in the small hall. Tycho Nestoris sat in the corner, two of his ‘companions’ as he called them sat with him, slowly taking to the jam and freshly baked bread. It seemed to Baelor that Nestoris was keen to emphasise, he’s got no problem with their way of living. And yet, he couldn’t have looked more out of place, disturbingly uncomfortable. He kept glancing toward the entrance, no doubt awaiting the Queen. But instead, only more and more people streamed in, taking their morning rations, their face delighted at the smell of fresh bread, and even more so once they were handed the small buns. Tyrion doubled the rations, Baelor knew. This will work for them, for a day or two, perhaps even a week. There was even milk handed out, something they didn’t have for a long while, but Nestoris ferried livestock. Now Baelor understood the importance of livestock, seeing the eyes of mothers handing the cups to their small children, in them, boiled milk.

His eyes found Desmera in the crowd, sitting at the end of one of the long tables, with Alys Karstark. The two became so inseparable, Baelor amused himself with the thought that one day he’ll find Alys Karstark in his bedchamber. Likely the day he’ll be kicked out of his bed.

This was no place for a girl like Desmera, Baelor knew that. He knew all too well, listening to her sobs every night. Once he took care of the marital matters, Desmera no longer tried to cuddle against him, ask him how the day was. Not that he could’ve reported much new to her, every day was the same. But he was acutely aware of her predicament, though his young wife never complained. No, she was better than that. She endured, that made Baelor proud. He promised himself, once Desmera is with child, he doesn’t care of what message that sends, he’ll send her back home. To Hightower. She’ll be happier there, and judging by past experiences, stillborn babes and babes who didn’t even grow to be born at all, Baelor was not to risk it. If only Desmera would get with child, because so far, she hasn’t.

He walked to Tycho Nestoris.

All three of them stood at his sight, but Nestoris spoke. “Lord Hightower,” he bowed his head in greeting, “I’ve not had the chance to tell you of my surprise to see you in this camp.”

“And why is that,” Baelor asked, instead of the greeting formulating in his mind.

“As far as I know, Old Town has been spared during this awful war I hear so much about,” Nestoris said hesitantly.

“That depends,” Baelor’s answer was sharp, “If you mean my ships, half my fleet burned under Lannisport. If you mean my army, my losses weren’t inconsiderable under Kings Landing.”

“No, I heard the story,” Nestoris nodded, “The battle of the Goldroad they call it. I heard Hightower and the Golden Company defeated the dead there.”

Baelor had to chuckle, aloud. “Defeated.”

“Of course,” Nestoris corrected himself with a sly grin, “I know, Jon Targaryen defeated the dead, his dragon burned their army during the battle, while he fought the Great Other and killed it. I hear he died so himself.”

“I heard those tales,” Baelor sighed, “Sometimes all of it makes me wonder, when I tell my sons and grandsons, will they believe me, or will they think me a mad old man?”

Nestoris just grinned. “I came across your lady wife, my Lord, earlier in this hall,” he said, “I doubt you’ll be an old man telling those stories.”

Baelor felt the urge to beat the man into a plump. How dare he… but then, perhaps that was what everyone thought. It’s not like Desmera wasn’t half his age, but also, it’s not like it was all that unusual.

“I was hoping to see the Queen,” Nestoris’ words dragged him back from the chain of thought.

“Queen Sansa is attending other matters this morning, my Lord,” he said nonchalantly, “She’ll provide you with suitable audience to discourse your… relation, I am certain of it, however she’s not an idle ruler who can merely brush aside whatever was on her plate because you arrived.”

“No, I wouldn’t have thought so,” Nestoris nodded. “Albeit, I recall my arrival at Kings Landing, a private audience with Cersei Lannister was immediate. But I agree, what else could she have had to spend her time with.”

“Rotting Dornish prisoners in the Black Cells, I hear,” Baelor scoffed, “Don’t even think of comparing Queen Sansa to that… the Mad Queen.”

“No, I agree,” Nestoris’ eyes shone, he enjoyed the conversation, Baelor realised. “In the short time I’ve known your Queen, I must admit the difference is striking. Although, she’s not your Queen, forgive me.”

“No, she’s Queen in the North,” Baelor’s eyes narrowed slightly, as he tried to figure where the conversation was leading.

“It must be rather odd,” Nestoris remarked, “Following orders of a Queen who really, has no right over you.”

Baelor laughed at that. “You would think so, but in truth, there’s nothing to it, my Lord. She’s never given me an order, so you see, it would be hard for me to find it odd. There’s no moral conundrum, no conflict of loyalties, my Lord, if that is what you were referring to.”

“I see,” Nestoris nodded, in thought, “Then how come that she rules in this camp.”

“The camp is not hers,” Baelor remarked, realising that he was probed. Nestoris was looking for information, for what, he couldn’t just tell, but he was probing him about the Queen. He was not having it.

“Forgive me, Lord Baelor,” Nestoris said then, “I don’t understand clearly. Westeros is so keen on its customs, ruling class and kings and queens. I would not have thought that there’s a different… system.”

“The camp was established on Targaryen orders,” Baelor explained, trying to remain as ambiguous as he could, “We received clear directions as to the establishment of this camp, and many of us received our orders accordingly, including the directions governing the camp. I won’t bore you with the details, but rest assured, Targaryen rule is very much alive in this camp.”

“Even though there are no Targaryens in this camp,” Nestoris remarked.

Baelor didn’t really have an answer to it – none of them did. “I presume, loyalty isn’t so high on the priority list of the people of Braavos,” he declared instead, “As you said, my Lord. We have our customs. Loyalty is firmly at the core of them.”

Baelor nodded, and left the man, slowly making his way toward Desmera’s table. She was about to be finished, just as he stopped. She gave him a warm smile, as always. She’s been well thaught, Baelor thought bitterly, she knew when to keep up with what appearance.

“I wanted to ask you something, my dear,” he said softly, “To ask something of you, and Lady Karstark, if it please.”

“Of course, Baelor,” her voice rang like music, not at all pretentious. At least her affections toward him didn’t waver, no matter how miserable her life has proven to become as his wife.

“You see those Essosi, and the man I spoke with,” Both ladies turned toward him and listened, “I’d ask you to take them on a long walk, preferable around the perimeter of the camp to the south. Take suitable guard with you, and avoid the eastern side. I would ask you to tell them all the tales you heard about the Targaryens and their dragons and direwolves, all their great deeds throughout the war. And I would ask you to be in complete awe of those tales while you tell them.”

Alys looked somewhat lost at hearing the ask, but Desmera nodded, with a smile. Baelor returned the nod and was about to leave them when she caught his hand. She stepped closer, right in front of him.

“This is not how a lady behaves, Desmera,” he grinned.

“No it isn’t,” she whispered, “But I have to know. You want to convince him. What do you fear.”

She smiled still, as she spoke, that bright smile of hers was constant. The thought rushed through Baelor’s mind, anyone who saw them would think her actions as that of the young foolish wife, nothing more. Gods, she was a clever woman.

“Let us speak in our chamber, tonight,” he whispered, and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you.”

Then he left her, his heart full of gratitude. And love. Desmera was always pleasant enough to be close to his heart, comely enough to be desirable, even for a man duly wed, she was, and Baelor wasn’t alone with that assessment back then. But he had to conclude, she’s just proven herself to be the wife he’s needed. One that deserved all the love he could muster in himself. He should give her more of his attention, he concluded, and his affections.

For now, though, he had a much more immediate task.

 

*****

 

“Come in,” Sansa responded, and the door creaked while slowly opening.

“Just come in and close the door behind you.”

Baelor raised an eyebrow, but did as told, then he stood by the door, waiting for the Queen to turn toward him. She didn’t.

“You’ve not broken your fast with us this morning,” he began, “I came to see you are well.”

She looked up at him then.

“Which you clearly aren’t,” Baelor noted, “May I?”

He pointed toward the chair opposite her at the table, and she nodded. Her cheeks were swollen, dark circles under her red eyes. She’s been crying, Baelor knew. He knew better than to point it out.

He was about to ask what the matter was, to find the right words to ask, when she placed something on the table in front of him. A pin. Direwolf head in the palm of a hand.

Baelor let out a long sigh.

“Lord Reed…” she began.

“Resigned,” He finished the sentence. “It’s not surprising.”

“Not surprising?”

“Forgive me, your grace,” Baelor said softly, taking her hand in his. “If I did the things he did, Losing my home, all my friends, my limbs, my health… I think I would break as well.”

“It’s not what we hoped for, I know, this…” She gestured toward the window she’s no doubt been staring out of for long before his arrival, her gesture clearly meaning the camp outside that she’s had clear view of from her chamber. “But what more could we do? What more can I do?”

“For a start,” Baelor smiled, “Stop trying to convince yourself that you could’ve done more. And don’t try to convince Lord Reed either. Only time will resolve his state of mind, I find. Men who lose their way need to gain clarity, before they can find their way again.”

“We don’t have time for this,” she whispered.

“No, we don’t,” Baelor nodded, “I came to warn you.”

“That Tycho Nestoris is sinister?” She raised an eyebrow, her voice full of sarcasm.

“I’ve hardly met a sharper mind in a woman, than you, your grace,” he said, “I wouldn’t think even to try and lecture you like that. I came to warn you of his interest in your person as the ruler of this camp.”

“You may exaggerate my values,” Sansa chuckled, “For I don’t understand what concern my ruling could be, I don’t rule this camp.”

“Which is what I told him,” Baelor said, “As much as you have all my respect, and loyalty, your grace. I found that praising your presence and achievements in this camp would not be to your advantage.”

Sansa took a deep breath, thinking hard of what she’s heard. “Where is he now,” She asked after a long moment.

“Desmera takes care of him,” Baelor smiled, “He’ll be gone for a while, I presume. I thought you need a little time to deal with… this.” He glanced toward the pin, “Whatever you were dealing with. We need you sharp.”

“I know,” Sansa sighed, “We have no time for this. But it hurts all the same.”

Baelor nodded as he stood. He stepped to the window, his eyes looking for the particular hut that was the home of Howland Reed and his daughter, Meera. He found it, just on the far edge, watching as Meera left it, bow on her back, joining the waiting group nearby. Crannogmen. Hunters.

“How about this,” He said, “You allow yourself a nice hot bath, your grace, and if I may suggest, that armoured dress you wore when I met you, and call for a meeting in the afternoon, and I see what I can do to ease your troubles.”

“And what would we meet about,” Sansa asked. The idea of a hot bath appealed to her. The armour, less so. “Why the dress-up?”

Baelor chuckled as he turned.

“When I met you,” he said, “In truth, I was in awe. I thought, here’s one of the warrior queens of old. You exuded strength, so much so that I wondered if I made a mistake by offering you my brother’s hand, should I have offered my own? I’d have you exude that strength when we begin to probe just why exactly is this Tycho Nestoris so keen to enjoy our hospitality.”

Sansa smiled at his words, for the first time during their conversation.

“There,” Baelor said, “You see, that’s the Queen we need. Armoured, sharp and smiling.”

He made his way to leave, Sansa’s voice stopped him just as he was about to push down the handle of the door.

“Do you think of them,” she asked hesitantly, “Of Humfrey. Do you think he’s alive?”

“Of course he’s alive,” Baelor turned to face her once more, “Why wouldn’t he be alive?”

“We don’t know,” she said, “We know nothing about them. They may be all dead for all we know.”

“They are not,” Baelor declared, “My brother is alive your grace, I know it. I know it because my heart could never take it was he not, so he will not die there. He will come back home.”

With that he bowed and left the room.

 

Sansa sat, staring at the door. He will come back home.

Home.

This is not home, Howland told her. No, it was not home, it could never be. She rang for the servant, to ask for that bath to be drawn. She’s got no time to lament her losses now. She’s had to keep up appearances. She felt acute gratitude toward Baelor Hightower.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... an author ask - if you're still reading, following the story, please drop a comment, because to me it seems there's only me and one reader invested in this... :( We can continue in DM and spare the effort if none's interested, so please if you are still interested in the story, let me know!  
> (I'm one of those who needs the comments, because otherwise it's like a waste of effort, because there's no feedback so why spend 3-4 hours writing a chapter. Let alone a whole 100+ chapters long story which this is...)  
> Thank you!


	88. Epilogue - Myr III.

“Ser Davos,” Jon peaked in through the door he opened slightly. He stepped in without invitation, closing the door behind himself. He watched the old knight sitting in the chair, head tilted aside. Slight snoring, he must’ve dozed off. Jon stepped to the bed that’s been made up for this purpose before, and grabbed the blanket, tucking Davos in on the chair. He wondered about the man.

He was glad to have seen him. He knew well that Davos didn’t share in that, no, Davos must’ve been disappointed. His mind immediately began its defence, what else could he have done? What could they do about it other than what they did? How could they have known?

Of course, if he really thought about it, he could’ve known. He knew that there were only two kingdoms standing, and neither without losses nor at the ready to supply the rest. If he pondered on it long enough, he could see how his plan to make them all camp under Harrenhal was disastrous from the outset. Of course, he didn’t expect dysentery, albeit he perhaps should’ve, at such close proximity to the city with its million burned or rotting corpses. That, and those of the dead, fallen at the spot they last were when the Night King still had them under whatever spell he used to control their dead minds. They all were just laying around, as much as Jon could recall, rotting. Dysentery was indeed inevitable, he concluded.

He assumed that Tyrion Lannister moved the camp as soon as it broke out, of course he did. Jon often thought that life got to Tyrion Lannister, he wasn’t near as witty as stories – even his own memories – claimed, and Jon found him not near as sharp as he expected. But the man was no fool either; his knowledge far outweighed most if not all men on Westeros. If they’ve done nothing else right, there was one thing that must’ve been right – the appointment of Tyrion Lannister.

Jon still found it hard to believe that Dany left them. And she did so soon. He wondered if he should’ve realised it, seen it coming. Now looking back, there were signs. She wasn’t herself, as much as Jon could tell who she really was. She seemed to have lost interest in it all, Jon grilled her for two days while they made their plans and she offered very little. Even when he told her, he’ll swear fealty, it was as if he merely confirmed supper that day. It was as if her mind was elsewhere.

Then there was the revelation of Yara Greyjoy staying behind, her dozen ships lining up between the Iron Fleet loaded with men – and elephants – of the Golden Company, and the shore, was an image that still lingered on Jon’s mind. That was the moment he should’ve known, he realised it a long time ago. And still, he couldn’t quite believe it. Perhaps because if he did, he’d curse himself for not turning around.

Not that it would’ve meant much difference. The Faceless Men were hired before he arrived in Braavos. That could mean only one thing – they would’ve joined him in Westeros, had he stayed. He was certain of it.

He firmly believed that staying was better. No matter how hard it was at home, it was better for them without assassins and the like in their midst. Jon wondered about how they coped, in truth quite a lot, he amused himself with stories made up, while he spent the past few months in caves, in hiding, with only Myra as his company. He always believed it was he who was pitiful, and they wouldn’t quite believe. Now he found, there was a whole different reason why they wouldn’t quite believe – because they weren’t doing near as well as he thought.

He couldn’t tell why he believed them to be doing so well. Building, sometimes he thought perhaps they’ll set to build a whole city around Harrenhal, take the stones of that accursed castle and build a settlement. Sometimes he thought they defy him and move up to the Twins. Or take Riverrun. In truth, there were settlements abandoned that they could’ve occupied. But instead they built a camp.

Perhaps they were stunned, perhaps obedient. Perhaps they thought, once the Targaryens returned, they’ll lead them to rebuild. Perhaps they didn’t care anymore, winter was harsh and survival not at all a certainty, so they figured, what of it. It pained Jon’s heart, that having fought the greatest war, the greatest enemy and won, now they lived the way they did.

He tried not to think of Sansa. Mainly because he couldn’t place her anywhere in his mind. He only realised it the night before he alighted in Braavos. He was playing cards with Humfrey Hightower. They never spoke of Sansa, not at that time or any other time. But there was a moment, when he told Humfrey not to let him win, and Humfrey shrugged it off, telling Jon that he chose the wrong opponent if he hoped for such special treatments. He still recalled the feeling, the realisation coming to him, this was Sansa’s betrothed. One day, he and Sansa will say the words. Not standing in front of the heart tree proclaiming who they were, there’ll be no such description of Sansa as “a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble” though she was the embodiment of all those things. No, they’ll have the elaborate prayers of the Seven, cloaks and pies during a feast afterward, and bedding at the end. That bugged Jon, if he was honest. For a long while he didn’t think of it, but as he looked at Humfrey Hightower in that moment, he did. As if all of what Sansa revealed to him came back to him at once. Long before they defeated the Boltons, during those nights when they had nothing but a tent to share, camp beds and blankets – and four wooden crates with four undead Night Watchmen locked in them – Sansa at times told him things. Things he thought he’d never do to a woman. Things that made Ygritte’s comment about where to put it gain a strange relevance because if those things were the norm then Jon didn’t know. He didn’t want to, he found, based on Sansa describing the pains she endured.

There he sat looking at Humfrey Hightower studying his cards, wondering if the man knew. Not where to put it, Jon could tell that Hightower wasn’t pure like a newborn. A man who spent two years wandering Essos and escaping Faceless assassins surely gained some experience in other fields of life as well. Jon wondered if he knew, if he could even perceive the things that Sansa went through. He was to wed her, Jon was to agree to it, he gave his word that he would. Jon hated it.

Not that he could ever find it in himself to hate Humfrey Hightower. No, that never came, the day after that card game they alighted, by the next night they knew that Jon’s name has been promised to the Many-Faced God as Arya called the fact that trained assassins began their hunt for Jon, and thus Jon never pondered on such things again. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t even think of Humfrey Hightower that way, again, not until he was alone in the caves, with nothing but his mind to occupy him. He thought about it then, quite a lot actually. Humfrey, and Sansa. He couldn’t imagine it, and whenever he managed to, he hated it, wondering why he did.

In truth, there was something else about it that he found hard to accept, apart his own disgust, that he couldn’t describe any other way. Sansa agreed to it. Sansa who’s been wed to a Lannister against her will, and wed to that monster, going through what she went through, and then she’s agreed to give herself to a man he only just met that day. Sansa, who gave her favour to him, Jon, and not Humfrey Hightower. True, Humfrey was nothing like the monster she described during those long sleepless nights in their shared tent, but she couldn’t have known for certain. And Jon never asked, he never asked what drove her to agree just as he never really discoursed with her about the ribbon and what all it implied, to either and both of them. Perhaps he should’ve but seeing as he was here and not to see her for a while longer, this was not the time, he concluded.

Jon assigned her decision to her sense of duty, she traded herself for food for her people – which as Jon knew now, wasn’t even enough for the people, and even if it was, Jon removed the need for her to trade herself that way, or he believed that he did. He wondered as he glanced down onto his wrist, tucking his ribbon under the sleeve of his shirt, if Sansa even remembered giving it to him. Perhaps Davos was right, he would need to spell it out in a different way because Sansa wouldn’t remember. She wouldn’t look. The thought gripped at Jon’s heart too uncomfortably to continue with it.

“Jon,” he heard, Ser Davos awoke, painful expression on his face as he turned his head side to side, trying to crack his stiff neck.

“There’s a bed, Davos,” Jon grinned, “Perhaps you ought to make use of it instead of snoozing in a chair, your bones would appreciate the feather mattress.”

“There’s a feather mattress,” Davos remarked, “I’ve not slept in a feather mattress since the battle of Winterfell, right until I arrived here.”

“I’m not staying behind because I value the featherbeds,” Jon scoffed.

“Oh I know,” Davos chuckled, “I’ve put it together. I suppose whomever hunts you would’ve hunted you anyway. If not here, then they would’ve come after you wherever you would be. Even in Westeros.”

“That’s what I believe,” Jon sighed, “I came to say goodbye. And to apologise.”

“Apologise,” Davos repeated the word, studying Jon keenly.

“I know we weren’t the way you perhaps expected us to be,” Jon said, “I know you expected more from us. I didn’t know, Davos. I didn’t know what it’s like at home.”

Davos nodded with a sigh. He seemed lost for words, or perhaps unwilling to speak those that came to mind, so Jon continued.

“I thought about returning,” he said, “But what could I do for them? I am one man, Davos. I can’t just simply appear and ships and food and gold and whatnot appear with me. I’m not a magical answer to winter shortages.”

“No, you’re not,” Davos nodded, “You’re just the man who defeated Death itself, led the people through the worst war in living memory, inspired them to fight on. Now there’s no one to inspire them to survive.”

“They shouldn’t require inspiration to survive, Davos,” Jon remarked, “And if they do, they have more inspiration than I could ever muster. They have Sansa. She’s the one who always spent her time sewing and knitting for them and visiting orphanages and listening to their every complaint, arranging supplies… All I’ve done was tactics and battle plans.”

“I don’t disagree, Jon,” Davos said lowly, “But I have to ask you, if Sansa inspires them all, who inspires Sansa?”

Jon wondered about it for a moment. He had no answer, of course he didn’t have anything smart to say – in his eyes, Sansa being Sansa included all the things he’s just said. She was steadfast and determined, encouraging and dutiful, the very embodiment of survival itself, she didn’t waver. He sighed heavily.

“Tell me about Howland Reed,” he whispered, hoping the news won’t be the worst he feared, holding his breath to brace himself.

“He lives,” Davos said, and Jon let out a deep sigh of relief alongside the breath he held as he pressed his eyes closed for a moment, to take it in: Howland Reed is alive. “Barely. I would say, he exists.”

“What does that mean?”

“He can hardly walk, the dead chopped up his legs. Muscles have been torn, the Hightowers’ maester said, he’s had to cut so much of the torn flesh off to clean them wounds, there was barely any left on his bones. He’s had bamboo sticks in his lungs for weeks, he could not breathe on his own, then he struggled when they were taken out, now he tires and runs out of breath even when his legs managed to carry him anywhere.” Jon felt Davos’ eyes on him as he listened, his eyes on the ground. “He mainly wargs his ravens and flies around, I believe it’s an escape. He hardly leaves the hut he lives in.”

Jon nodded. He stood, walking toward the window. This became a habit lately, whenever he didn’t want anyone he was with to see the emotions that came to him. But usually that was rage as his blood reached its boiling point, he needed the movement, the few moments and the distraction of a view to calm the rage inside. This time it was different. He didn’t want Davos to see the tears, should he prove himself unable to hold them.

They were silent for a while, Jon wondered if Davos was waiting for him to speak, to ask after the others, or perhaps to change his mind.

“I’ll return,” he whispered. Wiping his face, for a split-second glancing at the shirt to see if the paint washed off alongside the tears and the friction with the fabric but no, there was no sign of it. Myra said it’ll hold; it’ll hold for many weeks before it fades.

“I will return,” he said again, turning back toward Davos. “When I found whomever wants me dead, and I killed the man. Or men, women... I don’t care how many, I told to all of you what happens if anyone betrays me. I will kill them all, Davos, and when I’m done with them, I will return home. When no one dares to oppose me any longer, because that is my home.”

Davos watched him, unphased by his declaration. “And once you returned, what then?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “That, I don’t know yet. I’m not King of the fucking Seven Kingdoms. Six Kingdoms, Southern Kingdom, whatever. But those are my people, Davos. I hear you; they are suffering. I will put an end to it, you have my word.”

Davos nodded. “It’s better not to speak of it,” he said then. “You are here, and I can see why. I can’t say that I approve, but I can accept it. Go on your hunt and deal with your enemies, because I can understand what it means if you don’t. But Daenerys is also gone, we know nothing of why. She’s the Queen, you are the… Heir. Regent. Some say you’re the rightful King, still. And neither of you is there when the people need you.”

“You say you understand,” Jon chuckled, “Then you scold me for not going with you.”

“Oh you’re coming with me,” Davos remarked bitterly, “Your old clothing is. And news of your death. The Jon we know is coming with me.”

Jon wondered for a moment about his last words. The Jon they knew, the Jon wearing linen shirts made by Sansa, planning a war, leading the allied forces in battle. “We spoke of this.”

“I wonder why I should oblige,” Davos leaned back in the chair, his gaze piercing Jon’s. “I wonder if I should just hand the clothing to the Queen and say, you sent news of your death because you see it fit to lie to her. Because you’ve shed the last remnants of who you were to us. You’re clearly no longer that man.”

“She’ll know, Davos,” Jon said annoyed, “And, don’t presume to know who I am. You don’t know me, you say so yourself, so don’t presume that you do.”

“I don’t, Jon,” Davos declared, “You’re right. I don’t know you.”

Davos stood, taking the blankets back to the bed. “I’ll do it,” he said, “And it’ll be the last thing I do for you, Jon. I’ve not lied for anyone I served, I won’t begin with you, of all people. You leave that poor girl to run that camp all by herself. In truth all you reason is that it’s for your benefit, so you can go and hunt down whomever dares to oppose you, as you say, so I’ll do it because I still know you enough to know that I won’t change your mind, and because that girl needs none of your issues on top of what you’ve left her in. But perhaps for once you should consider the benefit of others. The benefit of that poor girl, you handed her a kingdom destroyed, and now she deals with all there is in that camp, and she would never complain. No, she hails you in high regard, keeps up appearances. You say you can’t make miracles happen, you’re just a man. It’s time for you to realise that she’s just a girl, and you expect the miracles from her that you claim you’re unable to bring about.”

By the time he finished, Jon was stunned. Speaking of Sansa like that, Jon was searching for words, something to snap at the old knight. There wasn’t anything, really, he found, nothing he could say.

“Just hold on till my return,” he said lowly, “Then I’ll deal with it all. She won’t have to; I gave you my word.”

“Hold on till your return,” Davos raised an eyebrow. “As if we had any other choice.”

“Seven Hells, Davos!” Jon’s fists clenched by his side, “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing, Jon,” Davos shrugged, “Nothing, really. Just take it, think about it. The journey to Braavos is long even at Lady Arya’s pace, you’ll have time to think about it.”

Jon gave him a nod, with a long sigh, as if making a mental note. “So, this is how we depart,” he remarked.

Davos stopped in front of him.

“No, lad,” he said, once more like the kind, gentle soul he was. “I’ve been harsh, I know it. And you deserve it, you truly do. But you are still you, and I am still me. I never saw a man more worthy than you, that’s still the truth. You just… you just do what you feel you must, and return home safely. Keep your word to me.”

Once more he opened his arms, and Jon took him up on the offer of a hug, no matter how he hissed at the touch on his back. Then he left the room, but not before glancing back at the door, to take in the sight of the old knight once more.

“I wish you good fortune, Ser Davos,” he said, “Stay safe.”

 

*****

 

The camp was buzzing, Baelor noted to himself. It was unusual, hearing the laughter of children as they ran around. They were chasing a piglet, Baelor had to laugh aloud at the sight. Nestoris shipped piglets?

Perhaps just the one, he omitted the piglets when he so carefully listed his cargo. It’s clear that they need piglets, for this one caused more happiness than all the cargo combined. The animal was loud, scared out of its mind no doubt, and little children were running after it, the men – the shepherds – and their mothers watching with smile on their faces.

It was a sight he’s not seen a while – he couldn’t recall if he’s seen it in this camp. No doubt the shepherds thought the same, when they chose not to end the game. A child bumped into him, looking up muttering an “excuse me Lord” before he ran away. He couldn’t have been older than seven namedays, perhaps eight, Baelor noted to himself as he looked after the boy. A northern lad. Spent the last year or so away from home, on Dragonstone and now here. Perhaps he didn’t even remember what his own home looked like.

He reached his destination. He had no intention to announce himself, instead, he pulled aside the leather flap, allowing the rays of sunlight to stream in, announcing his arrival, just as the piglet rushed past. For a moment he laughed once more, wondering what if the little piglet took up the invitation of the open hut and rushed in. No doubt the laughing children would follow. Perhaps that would be better than anything he could bring.

The piglet merely rushed past, the children after it, shouting orders to each other to encircle the poor animal behind the hut. That may work. They may even learn from the chase, Baelor thought. Learn to work together, learn to draw on a strategy. He found he didn’t like it too much. He didn’t want these children to ever have to rely on the strategy of encirclement. Encirclement of enemies, of dead corpses… no, better not revisiting these events. He remembered clearly the moment he first saw them, how his heart stopped pumping his blood and his lungs stopped mid-motion to take in the next load of air so vital for his own survival. He stepped into the tent, brushing the memory aside.

He said nothing. He merely studied the man, sitting on a chair, there was nothing to say. He was not here, Baelor could tell from the head tilted back, the white of his eyes shining toward the roof of the hut.

He laid his cargo on the table, and unwrapped it, before he took the chair opposite. His eyes studied the intricate carving on the hilt of the sword, the swirls and flames. The lines in the dark smoky grey tones of the steel, sign of its origins thousands of years ago, somewhere beyond the Fourteen Flames. Valyrian Steel.

Some say the boy, the new Lord of Storms End knew how to work Valyrian Steel. Baelor wondered for a moment if the boy knew how to make it, too. He was no smith anymore, though, and he definitely was not here. The boy was back at Storms End, sending supplies fatefully, ferried by Baelor’s ships. Some of those few that didn’t burn under Lannisport.

His gaze moved onto the man in front of him. The slim legs hanging from the chair that he knew were a constant source of pain to the man. He was tucked into layers of furs. He looked old, frail, everything Baelor would associate a man with who had nothing more to do in this world.

“Lord Reed,” he called out.

It took a few moments. But suddenly, the eyes turned and closed, the head turned toward him and when the eyes opened again, they were those of the man.

“They caught the piglet,” he said softly.

“They did,” Baelor nodded, “Because they figured to work together instead of just running after it.”

“I sense a lesson in that,” Reed’s eyes studied him.

“Why would I try to lecture you, Lord Reed,” Baelor smiled. “I remember when I was a young boy, I remember you riding out the gate of Old Town, and me watching from the tower. My father said, that is the wisest man of the land. I thought he spoke of Lord Stark, but then he said, no. Lord Stark is like every other northerner, proud and brick headed. The little man beside him. The Crannogman that’s Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. That young man has more wisdom than all the lords combined.”

“I wonder what gave your father that impression,” Lord Reed said, his eyes questioning, either the story, or Baelor’s appearance. Or both.

“I did, too,” Baelor gave him another smile, “He said, one day you’ll see. When all our foolishness repays us, you’ll see.”

Reed nodded.

“Have you seen?”

“I thought so,” Baelor shook his head, “No, to speak the truth, I still think so. I know of the things you’ve done, Lord Reed. We all played our games, but not you.”

“Perhaps I played a different game,” Reed shrugged it off, “In any case, I did not win it. Has my Queen sent you?”

“No,” Baelor leaned back in his chair, the idle chatter was over. “She would not send me, she’s smarter than that. I promised you that I shall come, Lord Reed, do you remember. I promised you an honest conversation.”

Howland Reed let out a deep sigh. “More of my mistakes coming back to haunt me.”

“Mistakes,” Baelor’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Do you believe it a mistake to save the babe, then.”

“Of course not, but I’ve made plenty of mistakes,” Reed explained, “I should’ve spoken up. There at the Tower, I should’ve tried. None would reason with the Sword of the Morning, but your uncle? He was commander of the Kingsguard was he not.”

“What makes you think that you could’ve reasoned with him, father told me he was a headstrong man, a loyal man.”

“We can’t tell, that path has not been taken.”

“No, it has not,” Baelor stood, “Do you wonder about the many paths that have not been taken?”

“Of course I do,” Reed sighed. “I’ve had so many crossroads where I could’ve done better. That was one of them. Imagine if we were just a little less keen on washing our swords in each other’s blood for a lost cause and a lie. If we saw beyond the curtain of rage those lies pulled in front of our eyes, if we stopped and questioned for a moment, is this even believable.”

“Your whole generation has been carried away by events,” Baelor remarked.

“Aye, do you know how a wolf pack is formed,” Baelor turned in surprise at the question. “There is an alpha, until another challenges and defeats it. Then he becomes the new alpha and the rest of them follow, anywhere through anything. Until another comes and challenges it, and if it wins, he’ll take the place at the head of the pack.”

“Robert Baratheon was your alpha,” Baelor chuckled, “And the North followed, as one pack. If I may add, you did because the one who could’ve challenged it strangled himself with his own shackles in the futile attempt to save his own father. Ned Stark was not raised to lead, Howland. He was raised to follow, and so he followed. I can’t fault him for that.”

“I was not raised to follow,” Reed remarked, “I was raised to lead my people. I was merely too eager to fit in.”

“So are we all in our youth.”

“Not Jon,” Reed’s counter was swift, confident. Baelor allowed himself a smile, the old man didn’t lose all his faith.

“It would be hard for one to strive to fit in,” he said, “If he’s raised to know that he never will. If there’s no way to fit in, no chance, there’s really only one other option. To find one’s way elsewhere.”

Reed allowed a chuckle of a laugh at that.

“Perhaps you are right, Lord Baelor,” he said.

“I know I am,” Baelor began to pace around in the hut, as he spoke. “I was raised to lead. All the tedious lessons, they were all to instil in me the willpower to lead within the shackles that my name brought on me. Remember my brother Garth? The fool that he was, puny and always so full of anger toward anyone, he was raised to follow. He couldn’t have arranged a menu for supper on his own, Howland, even if his life depended on it. Look at my other brother, and you see what happens when one has it in them to break free. I always admired it. Jon Targaryen had it, so being raised with no chance to fit in, he broke free. But there’s a time in all our lives when we are young and restless, and we all try to spread our wings, to break free. Not many of us have what it takes.”

“I didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t either,” Baelor smiled. “I’m not here to speak of our youthful foolishness.”

“You’re here to speak of my mistakes.”

“If you please.”

“We knew of the boy, and yet we accepted Robert Baratheon, knowing full well that he didn’t have what it takes, not with the clutches of Lannister closing around him. Perhaps he could’ve been a good king for us all, with a proper wife, a wise woman with a wise father. Tywin Lannister was not a wise man, but a cunning one. We didn’t dare to reveal the boy. In any case, for long we didn’t know he was more than a bastard.”

Baelor kept pacing, listening.

“There was a time when I was prepared to take the boy from Ned. When he refused to break with the status quo no matter how clear it became that Robert was nothing good for the realm, that the Lannisters ruled in all but name and didn’t take it for what that meant for the realm. I wanted to take the boy, to raise him at Greywater Watch. But I cowered, and I didn’t.”

“Instead you went to Essos.”

“I needed more,” Reed began to explain, “I needed certainty. The boy was no one on his own against everything that Tywin Lannister could muster, the past years have proven me right at that. That was no mistake on my part.”

“I’ve sent my children to aid the Starks,” he sighed then, “I’ve done so because my son convinced me. He told me that Bran Stark was different, he had a role to play. I allowed him to go, and he died. That was a mistake.”

“Was it,” Baelor glanced at Reed, “Had you not sent your boy, Bran Stark would’ve died in the cells under Winterfell, sooner or later. He would’ve never made it North the wall, he would’ve never learned what he’s learned.”

“What difference did he make,” Reed asked. “Jon made the difference and his crates. Make no mistake, I thought about it long and hard. When the boy died, Jon raged, the boy burned in front of his eyes. That’s the difference he brought.”

“Very factual,” Baelor remarked, “I’ve heard the stories. What else, Lord Reed.”

“Are you interrogating me,” Reed asked suddenly.

“No, of course not,” Baelor’s voice was firm, “You said I am here to speak of past mistakes. I figured; a man given up on life may want to share such wisdom.”

Reed laughed aloud. “A man given up on life.”

“Have you not?”

“This is not life,” Reed remarked, “This here, whatever this is, is not living. It’s prolonging the inevitable.”

“I agree,” Baelor remarked, “Death is inevitable. But therein is your greatest mistake, Lord Reed.”

“Enlighten me, then, my Lord,” Reed scoffed.

“Death in all its inevitability will come for us all,” Baelor stopped in front of the man, deliberately, his eyes fixed on Reed’s. “You count mistakes as, not preventing a fight, not snatching the boy away… No, Lord Reed. Those are nothing. There is only one mistake a man can make, one true failure. We have one life, and as long as we don’t make that one mistake, we live. We make our choices, shall we prevent a fight, shall we snatch away a boy who’s to be king, shall we steal a sword, shall we follow a Queen, or offer our brother’s hand to further our influence. We make our decisions because we want something else than the mere existence. As long as we do, it is in our hands, Lord Reed. We may take the wrong turn at a crossroad, and what do we do when we get lost? We turn around, trace our steps back right to the crossroad. We know the road we’ve taken was not leading us anywhere, do we not? So, we take the other road. But if we sit down in the middle of nowhere lamenting that we don’t know where we are, we may as well stop here? We do things because we want change. When we stop doing things to bring about change, Lord Reed, change will not come on its own knocking on our shoulders to remind us and lead us out of the woods. We have to stand and think, and find our way out. The mistake is when we don’t. That’s when we fail, and change will never come.”

“Leave now,” Reed declared in response, almost immediately after he finished.

“Of course,” Baelor nodded. “I apologise if I disturbed you. It was nice to discourse with you, however. A nice change.”

He moved to leave.

“Don’t forget your sword,” Reed called after him.

“I’ve not forgotten it,” Baelor glanced back at Reed. “I’ve brought that to you, seeing that you needed company, Lord Reed. It’s called Vigilance. Valyrian Steel, should give you a thing or two to wonder about for a change. Like all the stories it has, imagine. Thousands of years, from the Valyrian Empire to here, the battles it has seen… Vigilance, Lord Reed. Get acquainted. Vigilance has led refugees out of a different Doom before, I am sure of it, I used to come up with stories about it when I was a boy. It has the singular ability to bring about change. It can also put an end to an existence. Get acquainted.”

With that he left the tent. For a moment he did wonder if it was as wise as he thought it was. But there was spark in the old man. No, Baelor assured himself, Lord Reed didn’t merely exist. The old man lived, in the past, in his dreams, in the fears of his people, but he lived still. He’ll find his way out.


	89. Epilogue - Myr IV.

 

Edric stood and watched the passing shoreline. What a term, he thought to himself. They were passing the shoreline, which was constant, the same it’s been for hundreds and hundreds of years while many others have passed it. Soon its looks will change, they’ll cross in the narrow channel between Lys and the mainland and turn East. Soon after the land will shed its greenery, whatever of it remained now that winter has reached these shores. It’ll turn grey, darker and darker until nothing of it will resemble the fertile lands. Instead rocks will take over the view, and paths among them, paths he was glad his ship will stay clear of. They weren’t natural paths, no. They were the ancient remains of an empire, land that once ruled over those fertile lands he’ll leave behind. Back when not two, but many dragons roamed the skies, silver haired purple-eyed riders on their backs, as far as he knew. Targaryens.

Now there was only two of them, and even of the two, only one boasted the looks that the name brought to the mind of just about anyone. The other looked like that big-mouthed Volantene sellsword. If he was even Volantene, the Second Son. Edric chuckled. The odds are he’ll be able to ask sooner or later, if he cares enough, the Second Sons served in Meereen. Everyone knew that.

Ahead he could see the island of Lys in the distance. No doubt Griff could recount all their pillowhouses, the names of all the girls. Gods, sitting around for six months, Edric could imagine few things harder for him to do. Not that he didn’t sit around, he did. It took him weeks to get on his feet, he surely would be dead if not for that Hightower maester. By the time he was on his feet, his men were falling like leaves, and Tyrion Lannister separated the camps, the sick under Harrenhal and those not yet having had the misfortune to join them building huts and sheds and the like to the east of them, near Maidenpool. Then they burned the camp at Harrenhal when nothing but dead bodies remained in it, and the maesters went home, albeit not Hightower’s. And Edric was back on his feet.

He chopped more wood than in all his life before, he’s beaten more nails into wood planks. He did wonder why they build, told the Queen as much, but the Queen said, the Hand follows the commands he’s been given. They all did.

When the Hand paid him a visit, in truth he was relieved. Sure, he wasn’t too keen on leaving the Queen, but as far as he could tell, he didn’t have ten thousand, not before he recruited, but Hightower did. Hightower who was said to aid the Queen as his family, because she’s betrothed to his little brother, the freckled faced blonde by Jon’s side. Edric chuckled at wondering what Jon made of it, because he forgot to ask. Next time. If there’ll be a next time.

He glanced up at the flag, Norvos. Norvos has been home before. In fact, he knew the captain, it wasn’t the first time this ship ferried him to where he needed to go. He liked Norvosi, and Norvosi liked the Wolves, their presence in the hills of Norvos meant security without having to pay for it. Ever since that misfortune of a battle against the Golden Company, which they lost, and Edric’s grandfather declared, they protect Norvos as if it was their own. Right until they return home, that was the deal. Now that they were once more Westerosi, as odd as that may sound, the Norvosi still harboured tender feelings for them. Perhaps they hoped for their return. Perhaps they were glad to have seen them leave.

Cold wind rose, blowing his cloak. He didn’t like cold gusts of winds; he didn’t forget what they could bring. It was in his nightmares, the masses of corpses running toward him, bears and shadowcats and wolves, and men too, their eyes the same ice blue. It was the same every time. He’d reach for his sword, only to find it not there. A wolf jumps, and he cracks the neck of it, twisting his own wrist out of place when another bites, and then he feels it – the cut on his chest. He reached for his chest. He knew he won’t feel it through the layers of wools and furs, but he knew the scar was there. Long, crude, pink scar, that took so long to heal, that festered, that pained him. That forced him to realise, he’ll never again fight from the front. That he was no longer a young man, no he was aging. That he longed for nothing more than to settle, to have more than a hut to return to at the end of the day, and more than just himself to share it with.

The wind blew and he sighed. He won’t enjoy the open air any longer, he made his way into the cabin below.

“Seen anything interesting?” He could hear the girl’s voice just as he closed the door.

“There’s nothing interesting,” Edric scoffed, “It’s all the same as it ever was.”

“Perhaps,” she stood and poured to cups of wine, “Perhaps you’ve looked but not seen.”

“You’re an Essosi,” Edric chuckled, “Just your riddles would give it away.”

“And you’re a Commander.”

“I am.”

“Tell me of your Wolves,” she said, her voice softer, as she raised toward him the cup intended for him. “I hear you all bear the White Wolf on your sigil.”

“It’s complicated,” Edric sighed, “Fealties are complicated, I find, certainly more complicated than contracts. But it’s true, the white wolf is on our sigil.”

“I don’t think fealty is complicated,” she said then. “Fealty is loyalty, just another name for it. Loyalty is black and white. Either one is loyal, or not. It simplifies the decisions at hand.”

“You’re a preacher, woman,” Edric laughed.

“Not in the least,” she smiled, “But take you for example, Lord Commander.”

“The name’s Edric,” he protested.

“I don’t need to know the name,” Myra declared, “I don’t know you, remember? The less I know the better for me.”

Edric nodded, thinking about what she’s said. True, to an extent. But as much as he could perceive, she was already keeper of way too many secrets. Jon’s undead status, for one, topping all the rest.

“Take you, Lord Commander,” She began again, “You are a loyal man. How long did it take you to decide, you ought to take the road to Myr at the crossroad, abandon your marching army?”

Edric huffed. “It was obvious.”

“It was obvious,” She repeated, “Loyalty, is what made it obvious. Were you not loyal, you would have weighed the pros and cons, what’s in it for you, and if you take the road, what can you gain, what will you bargain in exchange of what you know.”

“That’s how an Essosi magister would’ve done it, I presume.”

“That’s how most men would’ve done it,” she corrected him, “Any man not too stupid to recognise an opportunity when it presents itself.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“I don’t know, depends on the man, I suppose. But not you. Because you are loyal.”

Edric leaned back on the chair, studying the woman.

“I’ve had my moments,” he said lowly.

“Oh I know,” she grinned, “I’ve spent many a day with the Wolf. I heard all his stories.”

“All of them?”

“All of them,” she sighed.

“And what do you think,” Edric asked raising an eyebrow.

“I think the Wolf is indeed Azor Ahai. I also think he’s a brave and handsome man, and a cunning man, but an honest man. And he’s a fool.”

“A fool.”

“Indeed, a fool,” she laughed. “It is interesting really. I suppose a man cannot excel in all walks of life, no one can.”

“If you would care to elaborate?”

“Have you heard his stories beyond the wall?”

Edric realised in that moment, he knew precious little of Jon, really. He knew almost nothing of what got Jon to the point of meeting him on the corridor in Manderly’s residence at White Harbor. Of course he knew, Jon united the freefolk and the northerners and defeated the Boltons, he used to be Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. He knew now that they killed him, betrayed him, perhaps that was why he left them. He knew that Jon grew up a bastard of Ned Stark’s, he knew that the Queen didn’t harbour much love for him during their childhood because of it. The Queen told him that. He knew little else, really. He knew of Hardhome, that was all.

“He said he was young and eager, he volunteered for a mission,” Myra began, “He botched it, he got captured and Qorin Halfhand, who he said was legendary, got captured. Halfhand ordered the Wolf to kill him. So the freefolk accept him as a deserter, and they did. There was a girl there, Ygritte. The Wolf said he thought he loved Ygritte.”

“He thought he loved?”

“He said he doesn’t know by now,” Myra shrugged, “In the end, he burned Ygritte’s body. He betrayed Ygritte for the Watch.”

“And the Watch repaid him with a dagger through the heart,” Edric added.

“Yes, they did, and where are they now,” Myra smiled. “Where are any of those who betrayed him.”

“Dead.”

“Dead, but that was not my point.”

Edric sighed. “He’s not a fool for striking out against those who betray him. That’s what a man should do to survive. Catch them before they get to him.”

“I agree, with both assessments,” Myra said warmly, “He’s a fool when it comes to women.”

Edric laughed aloud.

“Is that because he didn’t fuck you girl,” he asked amidst his laughter, “Because he didn’t, that I am certain of.”

“He hasn’t,” she nodded, “I wouldn’t have minded in the least. I told you all, I’ve done worse than what I’ll be doing in Bhorash. There were so many men there before those that’ll pay for it in Bhorash, I can’t recall all their faces. It means nothing to me, a thing I sold for survival. Now I sell it for a much better purpose. The noises they make when they finish are funny, I’ll enjoy laughing at them. It would’ve been nice to fuck one because I wanted to. But no, that’s not what makes him a fool.”

“Tell me then,” he said.

She sighed.

“Do you have nightmares, Lord Commander,” she asked instead.

“What does that have to do with it,” Edric asked annoyed, “I thought you’ll reveal some kind of ancient truth about men. We are all fools for women you know.”

“You are,” she said before she sipped from her cup, “Two tits and a pretty face, and you lose your wits even before you got under the skirts.”

Edric laughed, once more, loud and carefree. He enjoyed the woman.

“Now that you mention,” he joked, “You’re not bad either.”

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you, Lord Commander,” she grinned, “One day. Not today.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Edric chuckled.

“You thought exactly so,” Myra countered, “It was on your mind. It still is. And when you’ll go to sleep, you’ll dream of my tits. You men, you dream of things you dread. But when you don’t dream of things you dread, things that can kill you, then you dream of things you want, and more often than not, you can’t even tell that you want them. Much can be said about you from your dreams. Whose name you chant in your restless sleep.”

“Let me guess,” Edric grinned, “You’ve got a name. He talks in his sleep.”

“I’ve got names,” Myra grinned.

“Names,” Edric repeated amused, “More than one.”

“More than one,” she smiled, putting down the cup. “There’s one you may be interested in, though.”

Edric watched her. She only smiled as she stood, stepping closer. She leaned down, he could feel her breath on his cheeks, see her breasts through the opening of her shirt, right in front of his face.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, “I will fuck you. Why not.”

Why not, Edric thought. Considering his chances to survive this contract, he may as well enjoy whatever time he’s got left. As long as he remains silent, he reminded himself as he watched the girl free herself of her clothes, his hands untying his breeches.

 

*****

He rolled, at the same time pulling on himself the linens and the furs, still panting. His eyes studied the darkness as his mind returned to him, from that high peak that served as his escape. He glanced aside.

Desmera’s face was calm, in the flickering light of the fire in the hearth he could see the tiny drops of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes were closed, her face like a porcelain statue, content. Good, Baelor thought. He turned toward her, and she opened her eyes at the motion, glancing at him.

“When I make you love,” Baelor whispered, “Do you enjoy it?”

She gave him a smile in response. “I like how it feels.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Baelor chuckled, “I like how it feels as well.”

“I am sorry, Baelor,” she whispered then.

“For what?”

“I know why Father brought me here,” she turned toward him and he pulled the furs to her neck, to cover her. She wasn’t naked, he didn’t bother much with that, but the sheer linen of her gown was nothing against the cold winter night, even with the fire in the hearth.

“Your father brought you here because I wanted to wed you,” he said softly.

“Did you want to,” she asked, “Or did the king order it.”

Baelor chuckled. “He’s no king and he didn’t order it. He proposed it, and I found the idea much to my liking. What else to do to end our troubles between our two houses, and as your father pointed out, you enjoy Hightower.”

“That is not all, though, is it,” she asked then. “I am a woman, but I am not a foolish woman, Baelor. Garth has fallen, Humfrey is betrothed to the Queen in the North. I am here to give you an heir for you have none. I am sorry I…”

“Is that why you sob at night,” he asked suddenly, without thinking, surprised by the revelation. “I mean, I thought you’re sobbing because you hate it here.”

“I hate it here,” she whispered, as she tucked herself in, to be closer to his chest, “No one likes it here. You don’t either. I didn’t think you heard me.”

“Of course I heard you, my dear,” Baelor kissed her forehead as his arm wrapped around her, pulling her close.

“Father used to say, women are to knit and sew, know when to be silent and make use of their… you know. A woman’s task is to bear children, Baelor.”

Baelor chuckled.

“It’ll come, Desmera,” he said softly, “It doesn’t always come quickly.”

“That is my task,” she continued, “That’s why I am here, to be a good wife. I am to give you an heir, and I don’t know what to do to bring it about.”

Baelor wondered about it. “Sometimes I find you so quick witted, and at times I find you so naïve,” he whispered, “It’s adorable. There’s nothing to do about it Desmera. We share the bed, sooner or later I’ll put that babe in your belly, don’t you worry about it.”

He reached down, to lift her face to face him. “And after I did, I’ll send you home to Hightower with maester Tybalt. I’ve made up my mind, I will have that babe born at Hightower, not in some dirty camp.”

She nodded, clearly wondering about what she’s heard. “What if it will never come?”

Baelor was stunned. “Is that what you fear?”

“I remember my aunt, Baelor,” she said lowly, “I remember her sad face whenever we visited, she used to watch us play and she was so sad.”

“You are not your aunt,” he declared, swiftly brushing aside the thought of his late wife. “You are you. If I may say, this, is not how that marriage was Desmera. It was not a happy union.”

“Is this a happy union?”

“I am happy to have you as my wife,” Baelor smiled, “Now, of course I do wonder why such a young and comely girl as you would be happy to have such a fat red-cheeked man as me climbing atop of her every night…”

“Shut up!” she laughed aloud. “Because you are funny. And you are wise, you always know what to say. You’re Lord Hightower, and I like that you are chubby.”

Baelor raised his eyebrow. “Chubby.”

“Yes, you are chubby,” Desmera laughed as she sat up beside him. “I always thought that is adorable. Ever man I knew want to be this broad-shouldered warrior, that was all my brothers cared about. Fearsome lords in their shiny armours,” she began to imitate them, head high, her hands on her shoulders, with a straight back, “I am the Lord! Do as I command! I have a sword I will cut you down!”

Baelor watched her, laughing. She was such a child, and he was thankful that she never had to see a rotting corpse rushing toward her to end her young life, steal from her the childish naivety she possessed.

“You are not like them,” she said as she calmed, “I think you are better than them. You can see beyond that; you know what really matters.”

“And what is that?”

“The people, Baelor,” she said firmly, “The people matter. Rations and security matter. Protecting the people. Have you seen my brothers today? They supped with the Essosi. You know why.”

“Because your father told them to,” Baelor sighed, “I noticed.”

“Father is ambitious,” she whispered, “He thinks it is his right, he is the Lord. He thinks the people serve that purpose.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think the man is sinister.”

Baelor laughed aloud, and seeing Desmera’s stunned face, he laughed even harder.

“Forgive me, my dear,” he said as he calmed, “It is just that the Queen used the same words.”

“Because she is like you,” she shrugged, “She sees. And you saw it too, I know it. That’s why you sent me to take him for that walk.”

“And have you?”

“Of course!” Her eyes shone in protest, “When my husband asks me, I do as I’m asked, Baelor.”

There it was, another sign of her naivety, paired with the depraved lectures of Lord Redwyne about just what exactly a dutiful wife should be like.

“My loving, dutiful wife,” he smiled, “Tell me what that was like.”

“Boring, really,” Desmera shrugged, “But we told him. Alys told him, the king evacuated them to White Harbor, and then the dead came for them, so the King and the Dragon Queen came on their dragons and burned the dead. They barely escaped. Alys told them.”

“Then I told them what you told me, that there were countless of them on the Goldroad. That that commander, I forgot his name, he told you the plan the King used, to encircle them, and you did. And Garth fell in the fight. I also told them what I heard, that the King stood atop the Wall when it was attacked, and he led the battle, and that he arranged that plan I heard. Have you heard about it?”

“Which one, my dear?” Baelor wondered, honestly.

“They were on the cliffs, along the road that leads to young Ned Umber’s keep…”

“The Last Hearth.”

“That,” she smiled, “They were hiding in the snow, and the dead marched past and they killed a lot from the cliffs, in a surprise attack. But then the dead went around the keep and attacked the refugees who were leaving, so the King rode out with two thousand men to lead them away, and it is said he did it knowing he is riding into his death. And the refugees were saved because the dead army turned to catch the king. But the king rode on a lake, and they cannot swim!” She laughed, and Baelor chuckled. Just the sight of her, so immersed in the stories, warmed his heart. But she continued.

“Then the dragons came, with the Dragon Queen, and burned the lake. And the King and the Wolf commander barely survived it, they rode alone for days until they reached Winterfell and they were wounded. But the dead were coming, there was no rest, they made battle plans, and plans to escape because they wanted to trap the dead there.”

“But the dead also marched on White Harbor. So, when they escaped the King realised something must be wrong and went to see, with the Dragon Queen. And saved the people there. All those people they live because he was wise about it.”

That’s one way to put it. Stories. Soon they’ll become legends, if they haven’t begun the process of alteration and exaggeration yet. The way Desmera spoke of them, like the children excited to discourse and dissect every detail about the heroes, not unlike the way they used to about the heroes of old.

“What did Nestoris say to all this?”

“That it’s clear we love the King,” Desmera calmed, “But he’s no king, that’s what he said.”

“And?”

“And I told him, it matters little,” she declared, “He’s the man who defeated death. Daenerys Targaryen is our Queen it is true. And Jon Targaryen defeated the dead, because we could’ve never defeat them without them both and their dragons.”

“And?”

“To be honest, afterwards he was weird,” Desmera’s eyes narrowed as she recalled. “He stopped and he looked south and told me, there used to be a city there, haven’t the Targaryen’s burned it.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it was the Mad Queen who burned the city?” Desmera was by now clearly wondering about the task she’s had. “I told him, the Mad Queen did it. But then she was killed, and Queen Daenerys melted the Iron Throne so that no one will ever get so mad about keeping it, ever again.”

Baelor smiled, as he brushed a lock of hair out of her face.

“Did I do right?”

“Yes, my dear,” he whispered, pulling her closer, “You did very well.” He placed a kiss on her lips, but she straightened up once more.

“Tell me why you asked me,” she said, her face serious as if a grave concern was troubling her, “What do you fear.”

“It’s like you said, the man is sinister,” Baelor sighed, “While I’ve not had the misfortune to deal him before, I heard of him long before I met him. He’s a debt collector, Desmera.”

“We’ve got no debt, though,” Desmera looked confused, “Lord Edric and the Wolves serve as payment.”

“They do,” Baelor agreed, “But the man is here. Which makes me wonder, because you see, if all was well what would be the reason to bring him here?”

“To meet the Queen?”

“Yes, to meet the Queen,” Baelor sighed once more, “Which is why I needed your help. To make him believe that the Queen is really without power and influence here, a refugee like the rest of them, because we are all very loyal to Queen Daenerys and her nephew.”

“I don’t get it, Baelor,” she whispered.

“Me neither, I don’t see his motives.”

“The Queen has influence,” Desmera remarked, “Not just with the Northerners. The people like her, because she talks to them, and she sups with them, and Alys told me that she even helped in the kitchens, and she went to help the women who sew so that everyone has wool socks. Did you know?”

No, he didn’t. In truth, he wasn’t surprised, but still, he was somewhat in awe.

“She inspires them,” he said softly, “Because they need to be inspired. But that is exactly what I don’t want Tycho Nestoris to realise, Desmera. I don’t want the man to know just how important the Queen is to us. And thus, on the morrow, ask him to play cards with you to kill some time. Keep stuffing his head with these stories and how we all are loyal to Queen Daenerys.”

“But we are loyal to Queen Daenerys,” Desmera remarked.

Baelor thought about it. “Perhaps we are. I don’t think any of us gave it a proper thought.”

“Those are dangerous words Baelor,” Desmera declared, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I wouldn’t,” Baelor smiled, “And even if some craziness got to me, I have my wife to talk reason into my thick head about it. But I wouldn’t. It’s just… they’re not here. Who could tell how loyal we are? And to whom? That is all I was saying.”

Desmera nodded, deep in thought. “I want you to be loyal,” she said then. “I don’t want you to be like Father.”

“Why, what do you know?”

“Nothing,” she shrugged, “He’s just always so… discontent, I suppose. He’s always been. And my brothers supped with the Essosi. But even if he did something, he would never tell me Baelor. He knows I would tell you.”

“Because you are a dutiful wife,” Baelor smiled.

“In truth, I think he is glad to be rid of me,” Desmera said lowly, “He used to say that daughters really have no use at all, they should be wed off, so they become another man’s problem.”

“You’re not a problem to me,” Baelor brushed her cheek gently as he spoke, “In fact, you are a delight to me.”

She gave him a hesitant smile at hearing that. “I promised you didn’t I? I promised I’ll be a good wife to you.”

“You did, my dear,” Baelor agreed. He remembered her words, the first time he’s led her in this chamber. He took the promise as words instilled in her by her upbringing, one that he always knew was not suited for such a girl, harsh and cruel, when she craved affection.

“I think we talked enough about the Essosi for one night,” he said then, his hand moving to untie the neck of her nightgown. “Do you want to learn something new?”

“Something new,” she asked, watching as his hand travelled slowly down on her chest.

“Yes, something new between man and wife,” he said, “And I know you will like it. You like horse riding, this is very similar to horse riding, but it feels much better.”

She gave him a cheeky smile. To his surprise, his naïve little wife understood him exactly. Pulling down the furs on him, she settled atop him, and after that he really didn’t even think more about the Essosi. He only thought of the slender hips he held, as he directed her and watched her, while showing her exactly what power a wife could hold over a man, how good it really could feel like when she chose to use that power for herself.

 

*****

The winds were harsh and cold, cutting. Griff pulled the cloak tighter around himself as he stood. He didn’t move for the better of the past two hours, as he watched the men of the company load countless chests onboard their new ships.

They didn’t have enough ships. He followed Edric’s advice, approached the Norvosi, six in total in port, but then he did as Jon instructed, and bought the rest from the conclave, the magisters wondering why he bought them. He said they wanted to sail them by themselves, so there’d be no one to return them to Myr.

But why, they asked, where will they go.

Griff wondered about what the answer to that could be. He’s told them, they will sail around Westeros and alight at Lannisport. It’s nomansland, but there are gold mines there, the Lannisters abandoned them. They shall try their luck there, winter is mild there and the port will allow them to establish trade, using their new ships. They only need to rechristen the settlement, seeing they are no Lannisters.

The magisters liked that plan, no matter how idiotic it sounded. They praised it, the prospect of new trading relations following Griff’s promise that he would look at Myr as partner in this venture, once they settled, considering how kind the Myrenese were to the company. That settled it, Griff got the ships, of course not their better ones, but also not at full price.

“It’s quite the sight,” he heard the voice behind his back and turned.

“It is,” he agreed, “A new beginning. We earned it.”

The magister stepped forward, to stand beside him.

“And you believe you’ll be allowed to settle there.”

“The dead overran the Westerlands,” Griff reasoned, “That tells me that I’ll be allowed to settle there. The Lannisters aren’t there, they are in the allied camp the Targaryens established before we sailed.”

“What about the people there,” the magister asked. They didn’t understand, Griff thought annoyed. They couldn’t perceive the concept of the army of the dead.

“There are no people there,” he sighed. “That is the point. The army of the dead… They killed to boost their numbers before they marched forth to their next target. Anyone who didn’t escape got that fate meted out to them and their corpses marched on in that army.”

“The women, the children…”

“Yes, the women and the children, too,” Griff said lowly. “I’ve seen the children, my lord. I’ve seen their dead bodies fighting.”

“I cannot imagine the horrors of that war,” the man declared then.

“And you shouldn’t try,” Griff glanced aside with a slight smile, “I don’t wish it on anyone to see such things as we’ve seen, Magister.”

“And yet you return to the place where you saw them,” he declared.

So, this was the reason of his visit, Griff chuckled.

“The Targaryens allowed for us to return,” he said, “Jon Targaryen allowed it, Daenerys Targaryen confirmed it. We are now Westerosi. That is our place, that is what we wanted. Seems to me that it is right then to go and rebuild it.” He sighed.

“Jon would want it,” he added, merely as a whisper. “I know he would. He wanted us to settle, to stop selling our sword. He wanted these men to have a home, to have families. Had he lived… He would stand here urging them on, so we could set sail sooner and return home, he used to call it that.”

“You must be grieving,” the magister remarked, “And thus, you are eager to fulfil the plans of the leader you lost. Friend, I believe, to you he was more than a leader.”

“He was Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” Griff whispered, “He was my liege. I swore my life to Rhaegar and his brood, he was the last of them. The last of Rhaegar’s brood, now they are all gone.”

“Even Daenerys,” the magister asked raising an eyebrow.

“She isn’t exactly Rhaegar’s brood now is she?” Griff remarked, “Besides, she’s Queen of Westeros. As I said, she confirmed these plans before we sailed.”

“And what if these plans do not come to fruition,” the man asked, “The conclave of course is eager to support and establish our relations, but should you fail, your men will not taste the warmth of home, but choke on the cold of starvation.”

Griff chuckled.

“There is no business without risk,” he remarked, “Tycho Nestoris’ words to me, a while ago though, I admit.”

“Tycho Nestoris is a wise man,” the magister nodded, “Leading an ancient establishment that thrives on appropriate risk calculation.”

“Appropriate?”

“I feel the need to warn you, as you and your men were nothing but kind to us,” the man turned toward him, “and you’ve lost so much but you regardless against all these hardships fulfilled your obligations to us… I feel the need to warn you that the risk you are about to take are too high, the chance of success almost inconsiderable.”

“You are a tradesman, my friend,” Griff gave him a warm smile, “But what else could we do? This is what we longed for. The men are eager.”

“I would counsel caution,” the man nodded, “Perhaps wait a little longer. I know that is hard for men eager to move on with their lives, but perhaps it would be wiser to wait, until spring comes perhaps?”

Griff put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am grateful for your advice my friend,” he nodded, “But waiting is not an option. It is such a misfortune that we’ve not fought, we’ve only waited, now the men are restless. I cannot ask them to sit around for longer, until spring comes, regardless of how your words make much sense to me.”

“I see your point, my friend,” the magister smiled. “I was long wondering how miserable it must be for these good men, to do nothing but camp in these lands and wait. If I led them… forgive me.”

“No, my friend,” Griff smiled as convincing as he could muster, “There’s nothing to seek my forgiveness for, speak your mind. I welcome good advice from honest friends.”

“If I led them, I would take them into contract, earn money while the conditions are so harsh for a settlement, that gold earned could serve well once the settlement begins. Capital is much needed in such projects as rebuilding or establishing stock to trade. You’re no tradesman but I am, that’s what gives me the liberty to advise.”

“I admit I’ve not thought of it,” Griff nodded, deep in thought, “But then again, who would contract us knowing we look to leave.”

“That, I cannot tell,” the magister spoke, “Best would be to petition the Iron Bank once more, I know they were looking for companies such as yours to fulfil requirements, and truth be told, the Golden Company far outweighs all the rest, both in fame and in capabilities. I am sure the Bank could be of assistance.”

Griff thought about it.

“I tell you what, my friend,” he said, “Once we are onboard these ships, I shall call for a meeting with my captains and discuss with them. You know I don’t decide on my own. Let’s see, perhaps we’ll choose to sail up to Braavos. Your words make much sense, I shall put them to consideration. Thank you, my friend, I am grateful.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” the magister smiled, “Like I said, your company gave so much for us. I deeply regret your loss, Griff, we all do. It is only right that we aid you further.”

Griff nodded, and the man bowed.

“I wish you good fortune,” Griff called after him as he left.

Good fortune. He wondered about the conversation, how he’s proposed the exact same to Jon, but Jon said, they’d indebt the company to the Bank. They would not be free to act according to their own wishes; Jon was right at that.

There wasn’t much to it, for he won’t disobey Jon’s command. He won’t sail to Braavos, won’t petition the Bank. In any case, Arya, Humfrey and Jon by now were far ahead on the way there. No, he will follow the plan.

He will set sail and leave the bay. But he won’t turn toward Braavos, no he will sail out to sea, far from Lys furthering the notion that he’s set toward Westeros. And before any pirates – or as he viewed, hired ships – could mount an attack on open seas, he will turn east, having cleared the lands, and follow the shoreline. There, he will alight on the Orange Coast, and burn them fucking ships, and the dinghies, he’ll light them up and set them out back to sea. Then he’ll march the company North, out of the way of the road and Volantis, to clear the Painted Mountains on the northern side, and reach the Dothraki Sea. There he’ll turn to the south. And he’ll wait.

He watched as horses were led aboard a ship. He hoped there were enough. That they were strong enough for this will be no ordinary march. No, this will be as if the dead were once more chasing the living, and even more so, ride through the day, and the night, minimal rest just to keep them all alive and nourished until they reached their destination. There were eight days left. Eight days, it was a tough ask, near impossible. But Griff has learned from the Great War, that nothing was impossible.


	90. Epilogue - Bhorash I.

 

Davos watched intently as the shoreline disappeared on the horizon, shrinking and shrinking until nothing of it remained. Open seas. They used to calm him, this is where he used to be in his element, he reminded himself. The sounds of winds catching on the sails, waves breaking on the sides… Davos let out a deep, sorrowful sigh, for they brought no peace to his mind this time.

He made his way back to the cabin, but not before he glanced up on the mast – the flag of Norvos was dancing in the wind. He wondered what came of his friend, Salladhor Saan, he could’ve used friendly company. Not that the Norvoshi weren’t friendly.

In fact, he’s learned quite a lot from the captain. Norvos wasn’t one of the major free cities, albeit it was one of the free cities. Out of those “major”, Lys, Pentos, Braavos, Volantis, it was perhaps closest to Braavos - if not Pentos judging by its position but Davos couldn’t recall the map. On its eastern side, it’s closest neighbor was Qohor, a fact that would make most men weary. Norvos didn’t obtain such notoriety though as Qohor thanks to its sorcerers, or Lys thanks to its bedslaves in its pillowhouses - though Davos reminded himself now, they were no longer slaves. Norvos also didn’t boast of establishments such as the Iron Bank or monuments such as the Titan of Braavos. And it didn’t have such natural defences as Braavos either, but it wasn’t entirely grim and inconsiderable from what he’s learned. The captain spoke lengthily about life in the low city – as Davos learned, it’s the part where the commonfolk live, naturally where the inns and beer halls are located, and the brothels but Davos didn’t want to hear any more about brothels in the foreseeable future. It was a lively place with welcoming folk, according to the captain who urged him to visit one day, even went as far as stating, they’re now closer to Westeros than anyone else, the Wolves born and raised on their hills now roamed Westerosi lands. That was true.

Norvos wasn’t without its own nobility, like many other of the free cities. Take the Sinners Steps above the river, and one found themselves in the high city, though if the captain was to be believed there wasn’t much high about it. It was a grim place indeed, from the sound of it, where the wealthy lived, and according to him, the only reason worth for a man to take the steps out of free will was the temple. He described it to Davos and Davos sensed it was more of a fortress than an actual temple, nothing like the Great Sept used to be. The high city itself sounded to be more like a fortress – the noble Norvoshi separated themselves with high stone walls from the commonfolk ‘below’, and truly, everyone else as well.

The river was the Noyne, that much Davos knew. From the hills it flows straight into the Rhoyne, and down south to Volantis.

As for Norvos, despite its ‘lesser known’ or as Davos would describe it to himself, ‘less notorious’ status, it had its own wonders, or better called curiosities. Life was not governed by the noble, neither by the bearded priests residing in that fortress-temple, although the power they wielded almost begged for abuse – they elected the members of the council, the magisters. Funnily, everyone else had to shave, mandatorily. Beards were the sign of priesthood in Norvos – it was one of those Essosi customs Davos could not fathom really; and knew better than to try. Poor Norvoshi would have hailed almost every man in Westeros, except those of the nobility who cared to be clean shaven. That was a funny thought.

Magisters were responsible for a lot of things, mainly things such as calling the Norvoshi to arms, or more likely, hiring sellswords in the name of the city in disputes, passing law, and yes, paying off Khalasars so the city itself escapes sacking. But that was before Daenerys Targaryen united the Khalasars, took them to Westeros and their fighting force got annihilated in Kings Landing. The Norvoshi told Davos, there are women and children, somewhere in the Dothraki Sea, the people say, but none sees them. Talk is, once their children grow, they will come to take their revenge. It was talk. As far as Davos knew, the women and children were on Dragonstone, if those he saw was all of them, and scattered, because Daenerys Targaryen didn’t look kindly to slavery. She ensured, some would say demanded the slaves are allowed to reclaim their freedom – regardless of whether it was Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen, or a Dothraki Khalasar that enslaved them.

Norvos had slaves still. Clean shaven, of course… Daenerys’ movement of freeing the slaves has not reached the city yet, and they didn’t look kindly to the preachers of R’hllor lately, considering what they preached. Of course, they heard the stories. They were in fact proud of their Wolves, who fought beside Azor Ahai reborn, the Prince who defeated Death, and won against the Great Other. That the prince was a Targaryen, that wasn’t much to their liking though – they were weary of the change that was inevitable to reach them, delaying that inevitable, when the ‘new ways’ of the Dragon Queen, another Targaryen will change their way of life for what they feared would be forever.

Men are always weary of change, it is in the nature of man, Davos told the captain, but they didn’t find ground to agree. The Norvoshi preferred their way of life as it was, the Captain said. The bells ring, and people wake and work, pray and fight, and yes, copulate. Upon the order of a bell. What would Westerosi make of it, had they been told, from now on you are allowed only when the bell rings?

The Captain was visibly glad to have encountered Edric Snow once again. Eager to ferry Davos if it meant assistance to the Commander, though perhaps would’ve been more eager to ferry the Commander himself. But his route was to take him to Lorath, while another Norvoshi was on his way to Volantis, and thus it was clear who does which favour. The Captain was only sad to not have met the Prince. Before he died. His folk will be sorry to hear the news, he said. But they won’t hear it from him just yet.

Norvos had no seaport, no it was on the mainland. They had an outer port, just past the island of Lorath, admittedly too close for comfort and undeniably on disputed lands. They didn’t have a large fleet. In fact, half their fleet were in port in Myr, a happy coincidence, according to the Captain. If he only knew. Davos could guess that they’ll be all put to use.

As he sat in his cabin, the best on the ship according to the Captain, decorated with carpets and tapestries to no doubt keep out the draught of the winds at sea, Davos once more wondered about it all. The Captain was a peaceful man, in peaceful times. He spoke softly, kindly, clearly without reason to doubt either Davos, nor Edric or any of them. Tales of dead corpses fighting living armies, the Wolves, sounded miraculous and foreign to him, almost like fairy tales like the stories of old. His blissful ignorance that was the result was in truth quite a delight to Davos.

His eyes settled on the chest. They must’ve known what it contained, for they placed it on a cloth of linen on a table, while his own travel trunk was awaiting in the corner, on the floor. The little trunk wasn’t his. It contained Jon’s saddle bag, his linen shirts, his quilted leather overcoat, and his fur trimmed cloak.

Davos stood and walked to the chest. It was fine work, wherever Griff got it from – likely a gift from the conclave, he thought – it wasn’t cheaply made. Swirly bronze locks kept it closed, its corners were protected by more swirly carvings in bronze. Leather covered the chest, nailed in squares as if quilted. It wasn’t a chest to keep precious belongings – its lock was merely two pins across the flaps and loops – but regardless it was a fine piece, and one that hasn’t seen much use if any. The leather shone, not a scratch on it. Davos opened it.

Its contents were neatly folded, no doubt packed by that girl - Myra. He felt like committing sacrilege now, as he lifted the corners of shirts, to see below. He wondered what he would find was he ready to unload the chest, but as he truly felt it was not his, he decided to close it instead. He went back to the chair, and sat back, with a sigh only continuing the stare at what he perceived to be Jon. The Jon they knew. That man was dead.

*****

“The boy is dead.”

The Dornish looked around at both their faces, seeing the disbelief.

“There were rumours before,” The bearded one spoke, “Then he turned out to be hiding in the Stepstones.”

“But he’s hiding no longer,” The Dornish grinned. “Because someone was clever enough to take Westerosi siege technique against the caves.”

“Westerosi siege technique,” the clean shaven sat down, leaning back on the chair, slight grin forming in the corner of his aging mouth. “Do enlighten me, I am most interested.”

“My Lord,” The Dornish began, “It’s nothing new really. My men took a dozen pigs to each cave we judged considerable to be his hiding place. Then we burned them all. Very befitting for a Targaryen.”

“All of them caves,” The bearded man spoke as he brushes the last remnants of the dust of outside off his long robes, then he sat as well.

“I’ve seen it myself,” The Dornish argued, “Before my travel to Braavos. The boy was not seen, that is true, but there are merely a handful of caves large enough. They’re either too shallow, or too small altogether, or occupied by animals, or the shepherds. Now, of course we did not venture into those that we judged deep enough; we didn’t want to startle the boy… we left that to the pigs.”

“Are you saying he died of burning pig fat,” the cleanshaven laughed aloud.

“He didn’t,” The Dornish declared somewhat sorrowfully. “I have to admit that it wasn’t me who got to him. We merely ensured that he emerges, as it turned out. I hear he’s got burns from it, though. No, it was one of the Faceless who got to him. Little girl on the road to Myr, the boy bought water.”

“And?”

“He’s said his Long Farewell,” The Dornish grinned.

“No way,” the cleanshaven leaned forward, eager to hear more.

“How do you know,” the bearded one asked, still in disbelief.

“Master Tyberio has sent a detailed account,” The Dornish’ grin was constant as he spoke, “Jon Connington wept like a child as he told the story to the conclave, begging them to release the company. The boy arrived at their meeting, showed them his burns and all, then… his nose begins to bleed. They got no clue what has got to him, but soon he’s choking, dazed and confused spitting blood, and he collapsed. The conclusion was inevitable. Apparently, they could not figure what it was until the next day, when the boy’s servant told them of the girl. They figured the girl must’ve given him some kind of poison in that cup of water he bought.”

“It sounds unbelievable,” the bearded man spoke. “He averted so many attempts…”

“Strength in numbers,” The Dornish argued, “Isn’t that what you counselled me? Only one needed to get through, it was only a matter of time.”

“Are we certain it is not just another story,” the cleanshaven asked, “After all, Connington has seen much in his life and he is no fool, he may have thought to pretend the boy’s death. By the Gods, I admit even the boy could’ve thought of it. He’s said to be a cunning man himself.”

“And what about the body Connington built a pyre for, just outside Lys? They burned the boy’s body, said it was his custom,” The Dornish explained impatiently, “I suppose that warring against dead men made him thus, he didn’t like burials. He burned his own dead, even during battles. Burned corpses don’t wake, they say.”

“You say Connington wept…” The cleanshaven spoke.

“He did, my Lord. Tyberio wrote he wept like a child as I said, and he begged them, release his company so they can do what the boy would want for them, sail to Westeros and settle.”

“That isn’t what I wanted for them,” the cleanshaven snapped.

“I know,” The Dornish sighed, “And I counselled you against it my Lord. Take account, even with the forces we have, should Edric Snow and Jon Connington both bring theirs, they outnumber us.”

“Not if we pay them,” the bearded man spoke, “We had use of them, we need those swords here.”

“Forgive me,” The Dornish apologised with zero sign of meaning it, “Edric Snow knelt, Jon Connington knelt. That’s not swords for payment, that, is swearing fealty. An oath that is for life. I know mine is,” he glanced at the cleanshaven who nodded, “You cannot buy loyalty.”

“I don’t see why it matters if the boy is dead.”

“It matters,” The Dornish was by now visibly annoyed, “Because of exactly where you are taking them, my Lord. Edric Snow will be outnumbered on his own, and I know for certain that Tycho is by now by the side of that precious Stark Queen of his. Edric Snow knows well that he cannot break contract, regardless of the fact that he knelt and hailed the boy his king once. Add Connington’s twenty thousand in the mix, they outnumber us. Easier to turn and break contract if you can annihilate the client in the process, isn’t it?”

“Not if you tell Connington what you told this. Edric Snow,” the bearded argued, “Remind him of Tycho’s methods, what would happen to that comely Queen of theirs.”

“Connington does not owe fealty to the North,” the Dornish scoffed, “To him, that comely Queen may mean nothing when compared to the betrayal of Rhaegar’s brood. He’s fanatical about his own fealty to Rhaegar Targaryen, everyone knows.”

“And still, Connington had to be kept from Westeros,” the cleanshaven sighed, “It took too long, Gerord. We lost time we didn’t have, now he’s free to go wherever he wishes with his twenty thousand, and if they indeed sail to Westeros…”

“They won’t,” The Dornish thus named Gerord shook his head, “Tyberio had a heartfelt discussion with Connington. Advised him in the matters of business, he wrote that Connington was eager to take it to his captains. They shall sail to Braavos, petition for a contract. Then it is up to Tycho and the Bank to keep them out of our way.”

“And what if his captains overrule him?” Long silver haired and bearded man stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. “What if they vote him down.”

“Would your captains vote you down?”

“Never,” the old man grinned, “They know their place. The Golden Company never knew such order as mine does, though.”

“You know me,” The Dornish grinned, seeing their questioning faces, “I don’t leave matters to luck. I trust you’ve seen the two dozen ships sail this morning?”

“You sent ships against them,” the bearded grinned, for the first time.

“They shall never see the ruins of Casterly Rock,” The Dornish grinned once more, “Tyberio wrote that they planned to settle at Lannisport. As soon as they reach the open seas under Lys, they’ll be set upon. That fool Connington wanted that they sail them ships themselves, they may be the Golden Company, but they are no fucking sailors. Either they turn to Braavos, or the sharks get the last of them.”

The cleanshaven hummed, as he stood and began pacing in the room.

“Edric Snow is not here,” he stated.

“He’s got time still; he’s got five more days.”

“He’ll be here,” the newly arrived old man spoke, “Ten thousand marched past Volantis two days past.”

“And you know this how?”

“Scouts.”

“I told you not to risk our discovery by…”

“Fuck you, Westerosi,” the old man puffed, standing straight, “You have no clue of what I am talking about. I have my people.”

“Perhaps we shall write then to Tycho,” the bearded man spoke, “Seeing that he’s in that miserable camp, we have need of him.”

“And to the Lady,” The Dornish declared, “If it please, my Lord. It is time.”

“I agree,” the cleanshaven thus declared Lord stopped and turned toward them. “Let our friend know, as well, we’ll arrive two days from now. He also needs to be ready.”

“Don’t you want to wait until Snow…”

“No need,” the Dornish declared, “The less he knows, the better. By the time he arrives, either he won’t be needed, and we’ll sort him out, or he’ll line up under the walls.”

The Lord chuckled. “I wanted to sort them out.”

“I didn’t think you were becoming generous,” The Dornish laughed with him, “Granting independence to wastelands. I guarantee, they’ll see disastrous losses if it comes to battle. We needed a vanguard, we needed to preserve our forces. And if it doesn’t come to battle.” He glanced at the old long silver haired man.

“We sat around for too long,” His response came without a pause, “It will be nice to have a little play.”

“As long as Edric Snow fears for his Queen,” The Dornish’ voice was firm, despite the cheeky grin on his mouth, “He’ll be useful. Ten thousand men aren’t to be thrown away easily. But I agree, there’ll be time to play.”

“It is time, now,” The bearded one stood, “Two days from now, we know which way it shall be. Prepare yourself, my Lord,” he smiled toward the cleanshaven, “You had a long journey, not without troubles, and I know we weren’t always as successful as we hoped to be. But this time, we shall not fail. I can feel it!”

They all nodded in agreement.

*****

“I thought you were a Queen.”

Her eyes didn’t even flicker at the statement.

“I am a Queen,” she said calmly, “I am Queen of Meereen. And I am Queen of the Southern Kingdom of Westeros.”

“Well, I thought there was a ‘Seven Kingdoms’ on Westeros.”

“That is, because you know nothing,” she glanced aside at the man, his smug, confident face, his brown hair that’s grown long since she left him here, the dirty clothes he didn’t care for, quilted armour on his chest, elaborately carved hilt of a dagger sticking out of his belt. “There were never only Seven Kingdoms, in fact there were eight.”

Daario Naharis raised an eyebrow as he stepped closer, crouching down in front of her, to face her.

“Then tell me,” he said.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what happened,” he raised a hand with the obvious intent to touch her, and she swiftly raised hers to meet it in the air.

“Don’t touch me.”

Daario stood once more. “Don’t touch you,” he hissed. “Don’t touch you, don’t speak to you, don’t even see you. I’m surprised you allowed me in!”

“Look,” Dany sighed, “You come here, and it is always the same, months on end. I don’t want you, Daario Naharis, in my bed. You just don’t get it and you keep trying your tricks. Today it’s insults you brought, those haven’t worked so now you ask me once more to tell you what happened to me, because you cannot get it into your head that I may just simply not be interested. I value your service; I value your loyalty. I don’t value this… behaviour you allow yourself in my presence and I will not explain one more time. I’ve been patient.”

She glanced at the man. He was stunned, truly stunned. She’s never really spoken this harshly, she figured. Not since she returned, in fact since she returned, she never spoke this lengthily to the man.

“There are other things to talk about,” she said then. “When I returned, I asked you why the people have not yet chosen their leaders. And they still haven’t chosen their leaders.”

“They have a Queen,” Naharis shrugged, “What if they don’t want to choose. Seeing that their Queen returned.”

“And how do they know that their Queen returned?” Dany’s eyes were furious. “I’ve told you; I don’t want it to be the word on the streets.”

“Why,” he asked annoyed, “Because you’ve got no army?”

The words didn’t faze her in the least.

“Or because you’ve got no dragons. All you do is sit here covered in furs up to the neck.”

“The winter winds are cold,” she sighed, “Surely you’d prefer if I covered myself in nothing but actually, I am cold.”

“Perhaps if you moved, you’d feel warmer,” he declared then, “You know some say…”

“Don’t say it,” she scoffed, “Some say exploring the bedsheets is good against such a cold. See? I’ve heard all your banters and jokes. It’s becoming quite repetitive.”

For a long moment he said nothing.

“There is a man isn’t there,” he said then. “I bet it’s this, Prince promised. Isn’t he a Targaryen?”

“He’s my nephew.”

“Your nephew,” he rolled his eyes, “You have no family, remember?”

“I believed so,” she said softly, “But then I found my nephew. I am not the last Targaryen, and if you love me as you say you do,” she glanced at him, “You should be happy for me. I have a family.”

“Then why aren’t you with your family?”

She chuckled. “My nephew is the leader of the Golden Company. They are in contract, why am I not camping with an army somewhere awaiting a fight?”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Dany sighed heavily. A lecture was forthcoming, she knew it well.

“I think you merely encountered an impostor. An impostor filled your head with all kinds of rubbish, and in the end, you left the whole Westeros to him and that cousin of his, out of goodwill.”

“Nobody fills my head with anything,” she said calmly. She wondered if she should point out the fact that said ‘impostor’ actually tamed one of her dragons, something only possible if he possessed the blood… but then decided against it. It’d only lead to Daario Naharis preaching about where her dragons were. That she’s a Dragon Queen without dragons.

Instead, she glanced at Missandei.

The girl stepped forward, right in front of Daario Naharis, Dany watched. When Naharis looked at her questioningly, she merely nodded. This audience was over. It was over before it began, in fact it was over many audiences ago.

“You have orders, Daario Naharis.”

“I have orders?”

“To ensure that the people forget such notions as my being here,” she explained, for the dozenth of time. “To convince them to choose their leaders. They need a conclave established. See to it that it gets done, finally.”

“And after that?”

Her eyes returned to the sky. The clouds were moving, fast, their bottom taking on various shades of violet. The sun was to go down soon. She craved a hot bath.

“Why doesn’t she speak?” She heard Daario Naharis at the door. She didn’t bother with an answer. Why didn’t Missandei speak? How could she, Dany explain to this man, no, this lizard… no, not a lizard. Lord Reed would not take lightly to that. A leech. How could she explain to this bloodsucking leech the horrors they’ve seen? The horrors that Missandei endured within the walls of Kings Landing?

The girl spoke. She just didn’t waste her breath on leeches.

*****

She walked into the solar, admiring as the rays of the pale winter sun streamed in through the far window. She could see the many particles of dust floating in the sunlight, like many swords… she wondered why she thought them to be like swords, with a sigh.

“Your Grace,” she heard behind her and turned. Her peaceful moment has passed.

“Lord Tyrion,” she nodded.

Behind Tyrion, came Lord Baelor, and Lord Paxter, and finally, Jaime Lannister – Lord Jaime.

“Are we expecting anyone else,” he asked, his hand on the door handle.

“The Essosi…”

“No,” Sansa interrupted Lord Paxter. “Forgive me, Lord Paxter, I believe in the word you called Tycho Nestoris is the reason why we shouldn’t expect his attendance. Essosi.”

“Aren’t the Wolves Essosi?” Paxter asked in return.

“No, they are Northerners,” Sansa shrugged, “Descendants of Northerners who have returned to their home, fought, bled and died for it, and swore their fealty multiple times and proven it true.”

“We are not in the North, if I may add,” Lord Paxter argued.

Sansa’s eyes settled on the map laid out on the table. It was there since their very first meeting, not that they used it.

“I take it Lord Paxter and the men of the Arbor will not share in the benefit of the Wolves’ labour either,” she remarked, “Considering that he’s so eager to point out who is what.”

Baelor coughed, as if a cold got to him, calling Sansa back from her frustrated state. She liked Baelor Hightower.

“Too bad,” Paxter shrugged, “I was under the impression that we aim to maintain amicable relations. I have invited Lord Nestoris.”

Sansa’s eyes were just beginning to study the many ‘fingers’ of the mountains of the Vale on the map. She raised her gaze, her eyes settling on Lord Paxter. What an idiot, fooled by ambition.

“I see,” she said, just as she could see Lord Tyrion settling in a chair, with trouble weighing heavy on his eyebrows. “How did Jon describe it?” She turned to Tyrion now. The Hand merely shook his head, he couldn’t grasp Sansa’s chain of thought.

“Not the qualities we value, yes, that’s what it was,” she said then. Tyrion’s eyes shot up straight at her. “I remember now, perhaps Lord Paxter struggles with his memory. I remember arrogance was on the list of those values, alongside stupidity… Self-righteousness…”

“Your Grace,” Lord Paxter spoke, but she was not having it.

“Don’t bother, Lord Paxter,” she smiled, “You are not my subject, I am not your Queen. I merely would remind you of your own liege’s expectations of you, Lord Paxter. And seeing that it is not me, thank the Gods, I believe my attendance on this gathering is no longer required, seeing that it is not to discourse the state and affairs of the camp, as I expected.”

She walked past them, at a measured pace, head held high, and left the chamber.

*****

She walked the corridors toward her chamber, wondering why she did what she did. What in the Seven Hells have come to her? She used to be more patient. She used to be able to sit and listen with a smile.

She could decipher what it was. She despised the notion of one’s greed, the hunger for power, to be important. Still, it was most unwise to call Redwyne out on it so obviously.

“Your Grace,” she heard and turned. And so, it was Baelor Hightower who decided to come after her.

“I thought you to be Lord Tyrion,” she smiled, “Have you come to ask for my return?”

“Oh, no,” Baelor rushed the words, trying to catch his breath, “Lord Tyrion has cancelled the meeting, seeing that you are so obviously unwell. Indeed, you were complaining of a gruesome headache earlier, and such things make even the best natured of us easy to become quick tempered or impaired in correct judgement.”

Sansa just stood, wide smile on her face as he watched Baelor.

“The Hand’s words, your grace,” Baelor added, “Word by word, in fact, lest I forgot some elaborateness of them, but they were his words. He’s also said we shall ensure the Essosi receive appropriate opportunity to discourse our relation, and appreciates that Lord Paxter truly wishes to ensure we do not neglect our duties in that regard, however it is true that the attendance by those not nominated into the council on our meetings is quite inappropriate. I’ve not memorised the rest of his… words. He’s got a talent to go on lengthily.”

“Jon said he could talk a man into believing that their mother was not their mother,” she smiled as she resumed her walk, now Baelor by her side. “And I did complain of a headache.”

“Have you been unwell?”

Sansa reached the door leading to her chamber. She walked in before inviting Lord Hightower to join her.

“Only as much as I needed to be,” she whispered with a cheeky smile, “To avoid certain Essosi.”

But by the time she finished, she wasn’t smiling. She was looking ahead, her eyes fixed on the man sitting in her chair by the window. Baelor turned as well, to see what or who startled her.

“Lord Reed.”

Howland Reed sat with an emotionless face, watching them.

“I promised I will look out for the certain Essosi,” he said, studying their faces, before he gave them a barely noticeable smile.

“You did, Howland,” Sansa said, “I didn’t think that you would…”

“He received a raven,” Howland continued, interrupting her.

“A raven,” Baelor wondered, “I would know of it, I instructed the maester…”

“It didn’t come to the maester,” Howland said. “Most curious, it landed on the ship. But the Essosi expected it, by the time the rider arrived at Maidenpool with it, he was outside waiting for the scroll.”

“Any chance of knowing…”

“Sadly, that is not yet among my abilities, your grace,” Howland smiled.

“How have you made it here, Lord Reed,” Baelor asked then.

“I walked.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Howland I don’t mind a messenger, I don’t expect you to walk this far.”

“I know that,” Reed’s eyes settled on Baelor, noticing how Lord Hightower studied him. “Your grace once offered me a chamber here. Meera can’t stop nagging me about it. I wondered if it is still available. Or the Essosi have taken it.”

The smile that came to Sansa’s face was the happiest they probably have seen ever since the end of the war.

“Of course it is available,” she declared, “I would not have the Essosi in a chamber adjoining of mine. I’d much like if you took it, Howland. It’d give me comfort to see you around. You don’t have to meddle in our petty politics, if you prefer not to, it is just that I…”

“I have to meddle, Your Grace,” Howland Reed’s face was stern, despite speaking to Sansa, his eyes were firmly on Baelor’s. Baelor grabbed a seat and sat right opposite him.

“Why, what else do you know. You fly with that raven all day. You’ve seen something.”

His eyes dropped from Baelor to Sansa, and back.

“The Essosi,” he said, “He’s not here to meet the Queen, but I couldn’t put it together. His two companions are most… unusual. They were discussing of a Lord, the Lord will soon begin the conclusion of his business, and they will know If their presence is required any further.”

“A Lord,” Sansa repeated, “Redwyne, perhaps?”

Baelor let out a deep sigh.

“I don’t think it to be Redwyne,” Reed shook his head. “They spoke of the Wolves. Ten thousand of the Wolves should be with them now, and so the Lord has the numbers he wanted. There is more.”

Both Sansa and Baelor pulled their chairs closer to listen.

“One of them will stay behind,” Reed explained, “They agreed the young one will stay behind. The other told him, he can prove himself. Then the young said he knows exactly how he’ll do it. But the old warned him, the orders have not come yet, he should be awaiting orders to know what his task shall be.”

“Do what? What task?”

Sansa leaned back in the chair, deep in thought.

“I can’t tell, they entered their corridor and I could no longer follow or hear them.”

“I knew it,” Sansa whispered.

“You knew it, too,” she turned toward Baelor, “You warned me.”

“It was a hunch,” Baelor said, his face betraying all the concerns he felt at what he’s heard. “I wonder what ‘it’ is, that he knows how to do.”

“In any case, they need to leave,” Sansa declared, “And none of them should be allowed to stay behind.”

“Your grace,” Baelor’s eyes were on Sansa, “I don’t think they will ask for permission.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nestoris is a debt collector, as I know it, though I suppose he has many roles. Some would say he’s even the head of the Iron Bank. The Bank works with many organisations, some are companies, some are… more lucrative. But he’s said to be very effective as a debt collector, because once he appears, debtors know that is their last chance to pay.”

“I don’t understand,” Sansa shook her head, “We’ve no debt. Edric serves…” she waved her hand around emphasising just how little she could grasp or understood from what Reed and Baelor revealed, “this Lord who now has the numbers. I presume there’s a dispute and a fight.”

“The term ‘Lord’ is most unusual to me,” Reed remarked, “It is a Westerosi term I’ve not come across while travelling in Essos, there were princes and magisters… but not Lords.”

Sansa sighed as she stood, and walked to the window. The camp was buzzing, even more so, day by day it was coming alive. She could hear chatter, even laughter, even from where she stood, people shouting orders, men and women rushing about their new business. She watched them for a few moments.

“More lucrative establishments than companies,” she repeated, her words measured, “Arya had training in Braavos. The Iron Bank is in Braavos.” She turned, facing Baelor who nodded.

“Indeed.”

“Perhaps I made a mistake,” she sighed. “I asked Davos to find Jon and bring him home. I should’ve asked him to bring my sister home.”

*****

“I’ve never seen you so grim.”

Humfrey’s voice was soft, as he directed his horse beside Jon’s. For now, they were slowly proceeding on the road – there was not a living being in sight. Whenever any of those came, they picked up pace, riding past, before anyone could take a good look at them.

Not that there was much to see. True, they were an odd group of people. A man looking every bit Westerosi, like a deserter, blond locks and freckles and castle-made armour. A sellsword trying his luck in Essos. Another man looking just as much an Essosi, a Volantene, servant of the Lord of Light perhaps judging by the vibrant flames on his face, tattoos it seemed, but his long blue braid, the scars on his face indicated a man who’s seen a fight or two, and won them. Likely another sellsword. With them was another man, ahead of them, leading them. He may have been noticed, noted and recognised in Westeros, but no Essosi could’ve realised that by his looks, his wrinkled face and his thinning grey hair, almost bald on the top of his head, and his ragged robes. Jon glanced at Arya. Finally, he knew what Walder Frey looked like.

“I mean it,” he heard Humfrey just then, “Speak up.”

“There isn’t much to say.”

Walder glanced back at Jon – for they agreed laughing they should call the old man Walder, going on lengthily about how finally Walder isn’t late for once in his life, and that perhaps it’s bad omen since he’s always been late which they definitely don’t want to be.

“Just admit it,” he said, “You feel like a piece of shit. Davos told you they aren’t merrily feasting and now you feel like a piece of shit. You found reason to brood over.”

“Reason to brood over?” Jon narrowed his eyes in his annoyance. Arya’s outspokenness hasn’t changed.

“Yes, you always liked brooding,” the old man grinned, “As if nothing good ever happened.”

“Tell me, what’s so fucking good?”

“You’re alive, for a start,” the old man shrugged as he slowed his horse to get to Jon’s other side, “You’re also free, gone are the days of sitting around. We finally are doing something.”

“Don’t you feel bad about it then,” Jon scoffed, “Does neither of you care?”

“I’m a third son,” Humfrey remarked, “Though my status has been somewhat elevated since my brother fell, I still have an older brother to rule.”

“I have an older sister to rule,” Walder grinned.

“Fuck you both,” Jon declared solemnly.

“You have an aunt to rule,” Walder countered, “In fact, she wanted to, and you made her to.”

“Well, she’s not ruling, is she,” Jon argued annoyed.

“No, she isn’t,” Walder shrugged.

“She made me Regent,” Jon sighed, “I should’ve seen why. A Regent rules when the ruler is away. I should’ve seen through it.”

“Forgive me, YOUR GRACE,” Walder said sarcastically, “But what would you have done had you realised? Turn your ship around with all of us on it. Dice cancelled; ruling is on. Until the House gets to you, and then, exactly what is now.”

“No, not exactly,” Humfrey countered, “If there’s a plot, there’s a goal.”

“Aye, to see me dead.”

“Have you not wondered the ‘why’?” Humfrey glanced at Jon.

No, he never really did, Jon thought. He doesn’t really wonder on the why of things, he thought to himself. Why not just die and be done with it if he really cares as little as he’s seen Davos perceive? Why wanting to leave that frozen wasteland with the millions of corpses rotting on the ground? Why not grasping at the notion of being King? Why not marrying Daenerys? Why not Sansa? Heck, why not tell this bigmouthed boy to marry Sansa and be done with it? That is, if he really didn’t care about ruling and his inheritance. And most of all, why not just shake the Night King’s hand awaiting the dagger – spear, ice spear – in his heart and cancel out all the hassle?

“So, tell me,” he said bitterly.

“Tell you what,” Walder asked.

“For one, why am I better dead to some,” Jon turned toward the old man, “If I’ve given up my birthright, what on earth is so dangerous about me that I should be killed. But while you’re at it, tell me also why I shouldn’t be remorseful about what’s going on at home.”

“That’s not so easy,” Humfrey remarked, “You’re a responsible man, that’s why you fought that war, save the people, save the living… do what needs to be done. In fact, I think that’s why you left, you wanted to do what needs to be done. Find out who the Spider’s allies were, so they can’t move against you again.”

“So that they can’t move against Daenerys again, “Jon corrected, “She’s our Queen.”

“I’ve not forgotten,” Humfrey winked at him, cheeky grin in the corner of his mouth. “But sooner or later you’ll be king once more, I heard. She literally can’t do much about it.”

“Let’s not divulge into that.”

“I say, rule is subjective,” Walder declared. “It meant something to every single person who ruled.”

“There’s no definition, that is true,” Humfrey glanced across Jon, at Walder.

“Making laws, listening to people’s grievances, real or imagined, resolve their petty bickerings,” Walder began.

“Making sure there’s food on their table, wood to burn in their hearth,” Jon added annoyed, “that they don’t slit each other’s throats…” He sighed.

“That’s not how I imagined ruling when I last discussed what it meant.”

They looked at him somewhat surprised, both of them.

“At Greywater Watch, Reed took me to see uncle Benjen,” he began. “Then they grilled me about what I think.”

“Your family reunions sound to be the most happy occasions,” Humfrey laughed.

“Benjen saved my life at the Long Lake,” Jon retorted. “In any case, they asked what I’d do. I really had no idea, hells I still have no idea. But I think I’d make changes. I think ruling is merely a service, the ruler serves the realm.”

“Sound much like my father now,” Humfrey remarked. “He used to preach about it, the Lord’s responsibility is the welfare of his people, they pay their taxes, you put that to use to look after them, feed them and protect them. And, avoid them slitting each other’s throats, he did say that’s part of it, too.”

“Our father used to say, being Lord of Winterfell is like having hundreds of thousands of children,” Walder-Arya remarked, “That you worry for each of them.”

“And still you question why I brood,” Jon scoffed once more, “Why I worry for them.”

“I’m interested,” Humfrey smiled at Jon, “Your ideas, I’m interested.”

Jon fell silent. He thought hard about it, trying to remember. It wasn’t his words that came to mind though. No, he had to search for those, trying to recall, trying to brush aside the faces and the voices of men who were now dead - twice over, both in Quagg and Benjen’s case, he thought bitterly.

“I remember they asked me if I would stake my claim,” he said, “And I said I would. I said that if I didn’t, then my father died for nothing, uncle Ned lived his life in a lie for nothing. I’d stake my claim to unite the people against the dead, that’s what I said.”

“You’ve done that without being their king,” Humfrey remarked.

“Aye, one look at them proved to be more convincing than anything I or any ruler could’ve ordered,” Jon remarked.

“But surely you had ideas,” Walder interrupted, “You said you did.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I told you.”

“I don’t like a great many things.”

“I wanted to unite the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon sighed, “Including the North. To speak the truth, their current state only proves my reasons right – divided Westeros is vulnerable, lost in the ‘who do we serve’. Because the North cannot sustain itself without the South, or an outside interference. As example shows, it struggles to sustain itself on southern soil even with having both. Divided, the kingdoms, especially the North face the risk of becoming sold out to outsiders, or frankly, conquered.”

He glanced aside at the old man. For a moment he wondered if the mask also hid Arya’s true feelings. If it was really the skin of the old man she wore.

“What else,” Walder shrugged then.

“I told them I would implement an idea of Sam’s,” Jon said, the thought giving him the same curious, lighter hearted feeling about it just like when he first heard it or spoke of it. “A senate. One lord, one commoner and one soldier from each of the kingdoms, elected for no more than a year, then banned for two, perhaps. Serving the ruler as advisory.”

“I also wanted our own bank, mind you,” he smiled, “A portion of taxes diverted into it, so people can appeal for funds, to establish business for example. And I wanted standing garrisons loyal to the crown all over the kingdom, balancing the lords’ control over the kingdoms. Especially the Paramounts,” he glanced at Humfrey who chuckled.

“I wanted the Citadel to send maesters to teach in schools,” he sighed then, “for commonfolk to have the ability to learn more. To be more. Not that any of this matters. I’m not ruling anything, I confirmed Dany, I confirmed Northern independence so many times that I’d be nothing better than those before me if I tried to go with anything else. I gave my word.”

“You did,” Walder said, and Jon’s eyes once more studied the old wrinkled face, searching for a sign of emotion, any emotion. He could find one, Walder was looking ahead. Jon took a deep breath.

“Not that my word matters much, does it,” he whispered. “I broke too many vows for it to matter anymore. I can understand why Jaime Lannister was so miserable in his skin most of the time. I played too many tricks.”

“What do you mean,” Humfrey asked.

“Something Quagg told me came to mind,” Jon sighed, and Walder turned toward him.

“Do you remember Quagg,” he asked.

“I do,” Walder nodded, “Was a funny old man, though he wasn’t as old as he looked but he looked like an old long bearded little gnome. Played chess better than anyone! Then he rose from the dead and tried to kill Sansa. Led them wights into Sansa’s chamber at Greywater Watch.”

“I wouldn’t blame him for it.”

“I don’t,” Walder shrugged, “I’m just saying. Good folks rarely get a good fate meted out to them, Jon.”

“Your old face seems to be lending you some wisdom,” Humfrey laughed.

“If you knew Walder Frey, you’d know there was not a drop of wisdom in him,” Arya’s response was sharp, before he turned to Jon once more, “What did Quagg tell you?”

“That I’m the greatest man he’s ever known, besides Howland Reed,” Jon’s voice chuckled as he spoke. He swallowed hard. “Because where would they be without me, ruled by the Boltons when the dead come… Because he thought, if I ruled, I’d put an end to petty differences, I’d unite the people. I’d stop them killing each other.”

“You did, for a while,” Humfrey remarked, in a kind voice, hearing clearly in Jon’s that the memory was something that haunted him. A regret, perhaps.

“And I told him thus, I told him once the dead are defeated people will go back killing each other… sooner or later.”

“And?”

“He asked me, do they have to?” Jon whispered, “If I ruled, I could convince them, that’s what he thought. I told him that I tricked them, Daenerys and Cersei too, and you know what he said? He said that’s what rulers do. They trick people into believing that their own agenda matters less than the common good.”


	91. Epilogue - Braavos II.

The winds were harsh, cold, cutting into the skin. Yet the men worked swiftly. Horses were led steadily toward the woods, from dinghies that arrived just as steadily, in row. Bags and more saddlebags were thrown on the back of horses, and not only that, but large flasks. They were filled with water, it’s been ‘wined’, mixed with a small amount of wine to give it just a little taste, and even more so, to cleanse it. But they’ve also been mixed with something else, liquids in tiny glass vials, blue and green and crimson like blood, were poured into each flask meticulously.

Griff was not to risk it. He didn’t trust the water. He didn’t trust the food either, he named tasters from volunteers. He’s had many volunteers, much more than he dared to expect. Perhaps the men understood, once they all saw the pyre burning, they knew they all were in danger. Their Westerosi ties didn’t bring them security, or safety.

There was something else Griff did. He named a spymaster: himself. That wasn’t so extraordinary, he didn’t intend to spy on anyone. No, he also named spies, in each hundred men, there was now one sworn to report. He was careful whom he named, they weren’t captains, or men of any rank. They were men who knelt to Jon on the Kingsroad, most of them never ever seen an enemy lining up to fight them before that day – those ‘new recruits’, albeit by now they weren’t the newest, neither were they awaiting their first battle anymore, but they idolised Jon. The rest he named of Westerosi, men who joined the Company before they sailed. Most of them were Lannister men, ironically, but Griff knew, they idolised Jon just as much, if not more. There was one common trait of them however: They were all accepted, well-liked within their garrison. Now they were spying on their comrades.

He glanced behind himself. They were almost all ashore. The dinghies already began to carry men back – men with a very specific task. Those behind him already began to line up, as each man responsible for their two horses, their saddle bags of food and their flasks, blankets and whatnot got ready for the march ahead. There was one thing missing: Elephants. There were no longer any elephants serving in the Golden Company. For a moment Griff wondered how they fared in the Westerosi winter.

An explosion sounded, closely followed by another. Two ships burned. His gaze travelled to his right; he could still make out the half dozen ships that were departing. He hoped with a sigh, that Edric was right – that he could trust the Norvoshi. He wondered if they should’ve slit their throats instead while they could, but Jon would not have any of that. He just had to learn to trust people, then. It wasn’t an easy task.”, and thus Griff wasn’t succumbing to it easily, certainly not without assurances.

Another explosion, and another, then another. Five ships burned... Soon there’ll be no dinghies on the shore, indeed the last three were being unloaded. There were no dinghies full of men and horses nearing the beach, instead, dinghies were departing, one man in each.

He thought about it long and hard. He couldn’t leave dinghies on the shore, he meant to set them alight and back to sea. But if they burned, they’d burn close to shore, it’d take an idiot not to see why. So, he had one man in each, taking them back. He used as little an amount as he could. Men were collecting other men among the ships, and there it was: he could see the first dingy alighting. They’ll burn near the ships. They’ll be scattered around them, in all directions. Those that remain close to shore will be still set back to sea once burning, but by then, many will burn around them. They won’t confirm anything, there’ll be no pattern to them.

Explosions. He felt the acute grip in himself that he’s wasted money on these ships. That they needed ships once they actually decide to return to Westeros. Hopefully Jon will have some ideas about resolving this particular matter, because Griff didn’t have the gold to buy more ships. Jon was still the leader of the Golden Company. Griff glanced down on his side, his palm caressing the ruby for a moment. This sword was not his by right. He was merely a safekeeper, he tried to assure himself.

“Griff.”

“Denys,” Griff said the name of the man who spoke, his eyes fixed on the burning ships.

“Look to your left, Griff.”

He did, but he could see nothing. Ships, dinghies, one ship just exploding. And smoke, lots and lots of smoke hiding the horizon.

“Can’t see shit,” Griff puffed, “What is it.”

“Look closer,” Denys said as he pointed toward a spot. Griff narrowed his eyes.

There, a spot. Small, but there were more spots beside it.

“Seven Hells,” Griff puffed once more. “Ships?”

“I would say so,” Denys remarked, “We better move.”

“Aye, the company better gets on our way,” Griff nodded and blew his horn. “But not you, Denys. Keep your men behind.”

Denys Strong left him where he stood. Soon he could hear it: Horses’, horseshoe hitting stone. The march has begun. His eyes were now firmly fixed on the spots. They had to hurry.

He wanted to laugh. The Gods bless the winds blowing east this past day, aiding them on their journey, indeed it took half a day less than he thought it would. Those winds slowed whomever was sailing toward them, and whomever it was, they didn’t sail with heavy loads of cargo to sell, to pass the Orange Coast and reach Lys, or any other of the cities up north, or even to reach the Dornish shores across the Narrow Sea. He knew, because he could tell, there were at least a dozen spots now, and their number was growing.

The Gods must’ve agreed, for the sky began to fall, heavy raindrops hitting the ground. Now, Griff laughed. His mind barely began to process his next problem, the fact that those ships were way too close not to realise something amiss. He laughed as his eyes scouted the scene, but the ships burned. There was so much gunpowder exploding, a little rain won’t stop them from burning. But a little rain will wash away the signs of thousands of horses and men departing.

He watched as his men landed ashore, still waist deep in water, they worked to alight the remaining dinghies, and set them out to sea. Then they rushed, and he turned as well. Time to leave. Then he stopped. Once more studying the scene, he waved to stop the three men, the last of them, from running past him.

“We stay,” he declared, “Get yourself packed and at the ready to leave.”

“What do you mean, we stay,” one of them asked.

“Ships coming from the east, Lorimas,” Griff explained, “I mean to see if we fooled them.”

Lorimas nodded.

Soon those that remained behind were hiding behind the trees with the horses, but Griff, Denys Strong and Lorimas Mudd, another of his captains and the mastermind behind the burning of their so-called fleet, were laying on the ground, in the yellowed grass.

“Will the rain…” Denys began.

“No,” Lorimas grinned, “Trust me, they will burn.”

Griff nodded. By now they could see them ships. They bore no flags.

 

*****

 

“I hear you are leaving,” Sansa shuffled in the rocking chair, pulling the furs higher on herself, just as the door closed. She glanced toward its direction, to see that it was indeed whom she expected.

Tycho Nestoris stood at the door.

“There are matters, business I must attend to, your grace,” Nestoris began to explain, “I meant to see with my own eyes that our assistance will be to your benefit, and to satisfy myself that conditions here aren’t impossible. Else I would have had to take action, to ensure you receive the support you need, as I told you. The noble cause of saving these people is close to our hearts. Edric Snow’s description sounded way too dire for me not to come and see for myself.”

Sansa nodded.

“I must apologise for the lack of time spent with you, Lord Nestoris,” she said with a smile. “I am certain you heard, but I’ve been unwell.”

“You still are, I can see your grace,” Nestoris nodded, studying her.

“Perhaps a cold,” she smiled sheepishly, “I’ve had it twice before since we moved the camp here, it gives me terrible headaches.”

“So I’ve heard,” Nestoris nodded once more.

Sansa studied the man. He could see more than he let on, that much was certain, she pulled the sheepskin even higher on herself at the thought of it.

“So, now that you’ve seen,” she remarked, “You return to Braavos, and?”

“As I said, your grace, there is business I must attend to. I am afraid I cannot spare more time here.”

She smiled. “Business… I am sure the Iron Bank has many clients. After all, it is the Iron Bank. Clients who dispute, who refuse to pay… I don’t envy your position Lord Nestoris.”

“Which is why I am so glad that you’ve paid upfront, your grace,” Nestoris gave him a smile, “I am indeed glad that our relation has such a good start. A new beginning, for our establishment and these lands. Kingdoms.”

“Yes, you don’t have to await our payment, or visit us to encourage our payment,” Sansa remarked. “Unlike other Westerosi before us. I wonder if I am your only Westerosi client now, in fact. Does the Bank do business with other Westerosi?”

“That would be rather hard, your grace,” Nestoris grinned, “Seeing the state of the land.”

“No, I mean, in Essos,” Sansa pushed, “I know many Westerosi went to Essos. See the Wolves, for example, their ancestors went to Essos. Even in recent wars, I heard many left. They were exiled, like Jon Connington had been, or they left on their own accord not dissimilar to the wolves, when they saw that their fealties and beliefs had no place here.”

“It is true, your grace, there are many Westerosi living in the Free Cities.”

“Yes, I know,” Sansa gave the most innocent smile she could muster, “I remember my maester’s teachings. That many left. Some even out of custom, I remember southern kingdoms were said to regularly wed into Essosi noble houses, tighten relations. Those who relied more on trade, Maester Lewin told me, for you see, the North didn’t trade much with Essos. White Harbor did, I know that. I always wondered what the Free Cities were like. They had strange customs. And beliefs, Maester Lewin told me of them.”

“You have a mind keen to learn, I take it,” Nestoris smiled at her, “Have you ever seen any of the Free Cities?”

“I must admit, I have not. Perhaps never will, which is a shame, I would much like to see the Titan of Braavos. And to meet people. I hear there are many princes and princesses.”

“The noble titles are somewhat less confusing, I suppose,” Nestoris explained, “Albeit, none of them princes and princesses rule.”

“No, that is they are called free cities,” Sansa nodded, “They elect their magisters as I know. I remember a story, once there was a Prince, who refused to be Prince of a city and instead, joined a sellsword company. They called him the Tattered Prince, because of the rags he wore.”

Nestoris laughed aloud, “Had your maester told you of the story, your grace?”

“Oh no,” Sansa laughed with him, “This one I heard from my brother Robb. Maester Lewin was careful not to teach me anything that could compromise my education. He’s taught me little of what could be used in my current position.”

“Why is that so?”

“Because the world is not made of fairy tales, Lord Nestoris,” she sighed. “Life is not a tale of the Dragonknight rescuing the lady. Life is a struggle.”

Nestoris nodded, seemingly thinking hard of what he’s heard.

“So, are there Westerosi among your clients,” Sansa pushed the topic once more, “Do they have debts? Or who knows, perhaps some petty argument with an Essosi, so they seek assistance from the Bank.”

“Why would they, your grace?”

“I only hope they would,” Sansa sighed, “It is better to seek assistance from the Bank. Perhaps hire a company, I know there are many companies, of different sizes, some are smaller, suitable for neighbourly disputes, while some are like the Wolves and the Golden Company, who can raze cities to the ground. They’re still better, fighting in the open, it’s fairer. I hope they seek assistance from the Bank and not… the other House in Braavos.”

“You know a lot about Braavos,” Nestoris remarked.

“I’ve heard stories, I told you,” Sansa smiled. “But you haven’t answered me.”

“There are Westerosi clients time to time, your grace,” Nestoris grinned, “Just as you described. They have their bickerings exactly like Essosi do. Men aren’t much different on the other side of the Narrow Sea.”

“Are you leaving us to assist a Westerosi then,” Sansa laughed. “And I almost convinced myself that I’ll be your most valued client, for I am the Westerosi. Is it a Westerosi?”

“Your grace, the Iron Bank has many clients,” Nestoris remarked.

“Oh so it is,” she smiled.

“I’ve not said so, your grace.”

“No you haven’t, but seeing that you didn’t deny, I am now certain of it. You wouldn’t say so I can remain in the belief that I am the most valued Westerosi client you have. It is very considerate of you. When do you plan on leaving us?”

“On the morrow, your grace.”

She nodded. “Not much time, then,” she sighed. “I am afraid I have little chance of seeing you off, considering this terrible headache and cold I am fighting. Will you take all your men with you?”

“Of course, your grace,” Nestoris’ eyes pierced hers. Did he know that she was interrogating him? Or merely wondered why she asked such questions? She couldn’t tell. “I wouldn’t think to leave them, more mouths to feed.”

“I was wondering if you could, if I am honest,” she said lowly, merely glancing up at the man. “I am a Queen on foreign land, Lord Nestoris, I sent my fighting men into contract to your client.”

Nestoris’ face betrayed the belief. “Do you fear for your safety, your grace,” he crouched down beside her chair as he asked. “Speak up, your grace. You know we can help.”

She sighed a heavy sigh. “It was foolish of me perhaps to mention, Lord Nestoris. After all, you came with your guard that you have need of, I understand that. It is just…” she leaned closer to him, “Lord Redwyne and his sons. He keeps pestering me to wed one of them. And there are others, too, lesser lords and the like, I can hear it behind my back. I don’t know why I tell you this,” she sat back, “You’re a foreigner. It is not of your concern.”

He stood straight. “A young and beautiful unwed Queen is indeed a valuable prize for any men,” he said softly, “I understand.”

“And I understand you need to leave, Lord Nestoris, and take your guard with you,” she said, “I hope my lack of attention to you have not lessened the value of our relations in your eyes. I gave it much thought, and I must apologise for my earlier words, for I agree with you. Good relation is what we need. I trust I can count on you, Lord Nestoris.”

She was rewarded with a smile. “Do you have anything in mind, your grace?”

“Let’s see,” she smiled, “I was wondering if I could add glass to your inventory, for your next shipment to me. If that would exceed the value of my payment. I mean to build glass houses, so we can begin to grow food. But my biggest concern is what I’ve just revealed, my fighting men are fighting for someone else, I am here with my people, most vulnerable. I see the opportunity in your visit. Perhaps a force, a small one. A garrison perhaps, only until my cousin’s return. Or spring to come, who knows when my cousin returns.”

“I see,” Nestoris nodded, and Sansa could catch a glimpse of the shadow running across his face. “I fear it’ll be spring, your grace.”

“Have the Golden Company appealed for a new contract,” she asked then, “I recall my cousin saying, they don’t intend to stay long, but then again, why return to this frozen wasteland when they could earn much needed gold for the rebuilding works once spring came.”

“You are indeed a wise queen,” Nestoris nodded, “And as I was here, I am not certain whether the company appealed for a new contract, but I agree, that would be the wisest thing to do. I believe I can assist you, your grace.”

Her face lit up.

“I have certain men in my employment,” he said, “I understand your… concerns regarding their profession but I find, they are necessary in mine. And in certain situations.”

“Situations?”

“If for example, one of them lesser lords thought to take matter into their hands,” Nestoris explained, “And force a Queen against her will.”

She shivered at the thought, visibly. Nestoris crouched down in front of her once more, taking her hand in his.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he said softly, “I know you’ve… had a hard time before, I have heard. I didn’t mean to remind you of it, but I understand that it is what you fear. Let me leave behind one of my men with you. He shall be by your side and guard your door. You won’t even see him.”

“I would rather see who guards my door,” she whispered, “Else they become the source of my fear.”

“I shall then instruct my man to declare himself to you, your grace,” Nestoris responded, and she squeezed his hand, along with the slight smile she gave him. “I shall also leave a dozen of my guard, if it makes you feel safer.”

At that, she smiled widely.

“They shall answer only to you, so you won’t depend on any of them lords,” Nestoris continued.

“Thirteen men,” she remarked, “That’s enough to give me guard every hour of the day. I am most thankful.”

“As for the glass,” Nestoris stood, “It is expensive business. I shall see to it, while I cannot promise my return in person. If I am unable to, I shall send word with the next shipment.”

“I would rather you send the glass,” she remarked.

“And what if the price exceeds…”

“Then it exceeds my payment,” she sighed, “In which case I shall look to find a way to pay for it. I was hoping that you know by now, I am not in favour of debt. If I ask for something I cannot pay for upfront, you can be assured I shall pay for it as soon as possible. The price of your men?”

“The men are my gift to you, your grace,” Nestoris grinned, “And you are right, your ways of doing business so far are most reassuring. I shall see to get a fair price for the glass, as well as find the best arrangement for you. Perhaps a new contract for the Wolves, albeit I can see that they are much needed here.”

Sansa sighed, “They are.” That at least was the truth.

“In any case, I shall make sure you receive what you ask for in our next shipment,” Nestoris nodded, “The Iron Bank is at your service, your grace.”

“Thank you, Lord Nestoris,” Sansa smiled, “And thank you once more for your forgiveness of my… foolish behaviour earlier.”

“It’s nothing, your grace. You have a lot on your shoulders.”

“I do… I shall send you my requirements, we have plans for the glass houses. To make sure that you know what is required. Safe journey, my lord, I am most grateful that you chose to visit.”

Nestoris bowed deeply in front of her, and she gave him one last smile. She watched as the man left swiftly, closing the door behind him.

She waited, just a few moments, but she sat still, listening to the departing steps on the corridor. Making sure no one neared.

Once she felt certain, she threw the skins aside. She rushed to the door leading to the adjacent chamber and opened it.

“What do you think?”

Lord Baelor stepped into her chamber, followed by Lord Reed, slowly, aided by a stick.

“I think he’s got what he wanted,” Baelor remarked, “Now he thinks he has you.”

“Now he thinks you’re a naïve woman who easily trusts.” Reed said with a sigh.

“I don’t like it,” Sansa sighed. “Lord Baelor, are you certain…”

“I can pay it, your grace,” Baelor nodded, “I would not have advised you to do this if I couldn’t.”

“I am more interested in the thirteen,” Reed remarked.

“Yes, he offered a Faceless,” Sansa sighed.

“As a gift,” Baelor added.

“We can agree that he offered because the Faceless would’ve stayed behind,” Reed said, cheeky grin in the corner of his mouth, “Much like Lord Baelor suspected. The young man is one of those.”

“We shall see when they present themselves to the Queen,” Baelor remarked.

“We shall,” Sansa said sternly, “I will not have a Faceless Man wandering among the people.”

 

*****

 

It took hours for them ships to reach the carnage, the dozens of burning ships and dinghies on the water, the latter of which were scattered all over as the strong winds blew them, the waves carried them. Lorimas was right, they burned, until so little remained that no part of them was above water, and Griff was certain, they didn’t give away anything. Even from where he lay, he could see countless pieces of wood, and even canvas, blown out into the water by the explosions. The ships sailed into the scene, loud shouts instructing sailors to beware.

“Are the men ready,” Griff whispered.

“In any case, there’ll be men left behind on the ships,” Denys said, notably concerned.

“Don’t you think I know that,” Griff asked annoyed. “Let’s deal with those that come ashore. And if they don’t come ashore… then our job here is done.”

They watched as the men lowered dinghies and climbed into them. For a while the dinghies were slowly examining the scene. More shouting followed, before the men climbed back onto the ships.

“They won’t alight,” Lorimas whispered.

“They’re certain, then,” Griff remarked, “Either they believe it, or they don’t.”

“So, what now,” Denys asked.

“There isn’t much to it,” Griff said, “If they leave, we leave.”

They waited. The ships indeed seemed to move, to leave the scene behind. But they didn’t turn back toward the east, no. They continued on toward the west.

“How much did you tell the Norvoshi,” Lorimas asked.

“That we alight because I need a council with the captains. I told the captain of my ship what Tyberio told me, that he counselled me to take another contract and I mean to discuss it. I told him I didn’t want the Myrenese know that I do this, and in any case, I sat on my decision too long, this was the nearest suitable location to alight.”

“So they think we were having a council,” Lorimas added, “It’s weak, Griff. What are the explosions about then?”

“That is why I sent them away,” Griff grinned, “That’s why I didn’t want the Myrenese know, I told them. Because some in the company are very much discontent, so I fear a council may bring… changes.”

Lorimas chuckled. “Some ARE discontent.”

“I know, I’ve taken actions.”

“And it is weak, I agree,” Denys added. “But you’re right Griff, there isn’t much to it.”

“What else was there to be done?” Griff was annoyed.

“Nothing,” Lorimas declared, “The whole mission is shit, Griff, you must see that. It would be hard to build a castle out of shit.”

Griff glanced back at the ships, now duly departing toward the west. Lorimas and Denys were already crawling back to the horses, and so he turned around as well, wondering who’ll attempt to cut his throat sooner or later.

“What do you mean, some ARE discontent,” he asked Lorimas as he stood, now hidden behind the trees.

“Some men don’t like it,” Lorimas shrugged, “That we go into the Dothraki Sea. Should sail to Westeros they say.”

“We have orders,” Griff shrugged. “There was never an order liked by every man.”

“True,” Lorimas nodded.

“Is it something to worry about, then,” Griff asked.

“That remains to be seen, once the march gets to them, and the thirst, the bitter taste of the water, and the fact that we’ll be once more sitting around.”

“Something tells me we won’t be sitting around for long,” Denys remarked as they mounted. “Those ships were not merchant ships.”

“No, they came from our destination,” Griff said bitterly, “Meaning, that fucking Tyberio is a traitor, and if I survive this, I’ll cut off his head for it. Mark my words.”

“Thought the Wolf doesn’t take likely to such… endeavours.”

“It’s not the Wolf the magister betrayed,” Griff declared, “It was me, and the company. We have our rules, don’t we? To hells with traitors, that’s our law.”

“Something tells me there’ll be more heads cut off than that magister’s before this mission is over,” Denys shrugged.

“Something always tells you something, Denys,” Lorimas laughed.

“In any case,” Griff glanced at them, “Something tells ME, soon we’ll stop marching and sitting around, and we’ll begin doing what we’re supposed to be doing all this time. Once the swords have been washed in blood, let’s see how much the men rumble after the fight.”

“They are hours ahead of us,” Lorimas sighed.

“Aye, better catch up with them swiftly,” Griff grinned, “I have to tell you, if this is what I think it is, we are in for some fun at the end of this march. It’ll be worth it.”

“As long as I see dragons fly again,” Denys said, “I say that was my best time with the Company. Fucking dead corpses it’s true they were enemy like no other, but them dragons!”

“I agree,” Lorimas added, “We are soldiers. I can’t see why some want to settle. But better fight with purpose, and we’ve had purpose.”

“We still have purpose,” Griff remarked. “Though if we chatter about it much longer, we’ll miss the fight for our purpose.”

They laughed, as they set out, their men behind them.

 

*****

 

The crowd was almost unbearable. Jon wondered why Arya counselled him to only return here at this time, as far as he could see it, it was the worst time. Though he didn’t return because Arya counselled him to, in the end, at least not with the same purpose. Not exactly.

He was mad, fuelled by rage that he had to go into hiding, sleep in caves, he vowed revenge. He wanted to return to seek his revenge, on whom, he couldn’t tell.

Not yet, at least. He could feel it in his bones, soon this will change. Soon he will know. As he pushed aside some drunkards, and some more, out of his way as he followed Walder, he could almost feel the fury rising in him just at the thought. Soon, the time will come. He was restless, he felt the urge to explode, to cut down any man in sight, in fact trying hard to keep himself from doing just that, as the drunken crowd surrounded them.

The Braavosi were on the streets. It was almost time for the festival of the Unmasking, and they were already celebrating. Arya was right, it was the best cover anyone could hope for, to disappear as well as to appear out of nowhere. It was true to his enemies just as much as to himself; Jon knew that well.

They left behind the busy street, turning toward a corridor, and another, before they ended up on another street with steps down – and at the end he could see the shores. The Narrow Sea, and beyond it, was home. Here the winds blew stronger, the cold winter winds caused many merchants rather selling through their doors and windows, instead of the stalls that Jon recalled from the last time he visited the city.

But there were still many out, braving the winds, no doubt alcohol fuelling them from the inside, as they stumbled past their group of three, laughing. No one gave them a second thought. Everyone looked odd, Jon thought, they painted their faces for the festival. He didn’t look out of place.

Walder ushered them through a door suddenly. Jon wanted to scoff, he would’ve if not for the old man placing a finger in front of his mouth. Silence. There they stood, waiting, Jon wondering when the owner of this establishment will begin to complain. They didn’t come to buy whatever they were selling. He looked around, tapestries hung on the walls, small and large, depicting various scenes, mainly landscapes. In the adjacent room, he could see a table, and behind it an old woman, working hard on one more tapestry. He walked into the room.

“Any you like,” the old woman asked Without looking up from her work, and Jon looked around. They were beautiful. There were all kinds of scenes, beaches and woodlands, but one caught his eye. It was a smaller one, he stepped closer to study it. It depicted a waterfall, into a lake. Wolves were drinking from it. One of them was white, its red eyes shone from its whiteness. The waterfall was surrounded by cliffs. Much like the waterfall in the Northern Mountains, almost exactly like it.

“This,” he said.

“That shall cost you three titans,” the old woman remarked.

“You sell yourself cheap, woman,” Jon chuckled. “I give you five for it.”

He turned, also glancing at his companions, intently watching the street.

“I give you five more, for your safe keeping of it,” he said.

“Safe keeping,” the woman raised an eyebrow.

“Aye,” Jon grinned, “I’d not take it out with me now, see my friends are on a bet to drink me under tonight. Keep it safe until the end of the festival, and I give you five more for your service.”

He placed the five square iron coins on the table.

“She shall be precious to you,” the woman said, “The girl who’ll receive it, for you pay three times the price and more.”

Jon chuckled. “Perhaps. But I told you, you are selling yourself short.”

“I sell for what it sells for.”

Jon nodded.

“If I sold higher, none would buy. Then there are no coins. Better less coins than no coins at all, Volantene.”

“Aye, better that,” Jon said. “Will you keep it, then.”

The woman took the coins, and stood, slowly, she walked to the tapestry and took it off the wall. She rolled it up, and laying out a piece of parchment, he wrapped it in with the coins. Then she tucked the package on the shelf behind her table.

Jon only nodded. “The Lord cast his light upon you, Volantene,” the old woman said as she sat back to continue her work.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” Jon hummed. She glanced up, nodding at him, before she returned to that tapestry in front of her. Jon turned but thought better of it. She leaned to the woman.

“Make me one,” he said, “Make me one like none of those you made.”

“And what would be on it, Volantene,” the woman asked.

“Fire,” Jon said, “Fire, as far as the eye could see. And dragons breathing fire.”

“Silver haired woman riding the black of them,” she glanced at him, questioning.

“Aye, that, too,” he said bitterly, “And in the fire, all her enemies burning. Make me that, I give you twenty titans for it.”

The old woman smiled for the first time.

“It is a lot of work,” she said, “It won’t be ready when you return.”

“It will be ready when it will be ready.”

She nodded, her wrinkled eyes studying him.

“I shall make you one, Volantene,” she said, “To my fashion, black dragon, green dragon... In a moon’s turn it shall be ready.”

“Fine,” Jon began to search in his pocket, count in it with his fingers. He dropped ten titans in front of the woman on the table. “Downpayment.”

“That is fair,” the woman said, “Red thread is expensive.”

Jon nodded and left her, wondering why he did what he did. Not that he had need of the titans, but neither did he have any need of tapestries. He definitely had no intent of returning to Braavos once he left. Or perhaps he would, he thought, as he reached them, their eyes questioning.

“The fuck we are doing here,” he hissed.

“Waiting,” Walder whispered. “The fuck you were doing in there.”

“Have you seen her,” Jon asked instead of an answer. “She’s starving, she’s bone thin. At least now she has something.”

“What does she have now,” Walder scoffed, “a few more weeks before it takes her.”

“Hope,” Humfrey said, watching the woman. Jon turned too. Her eyes were on them. On him. He felt like a fool. He felt Walder’s hand on his cheek, turning him.

“Look,” he looked out the street, where Walder’s hand directed him to look.

An old man walked past on the other side of the road, dark skinned, wearing long torn robes. Friendly face.

“What have I told you,” Walder asked. Jon only shook his head.

“If I were to kill you, I would choose the most innocent face. He is our man.”

“How’d you know,” Humfrey asked.

“I know that face,” Walder whispered as he stepped out the street. They followed, Jon glancing back at the old woman one last time. She was no longer working on that tapestry. She had a new cloth in front of her, empty one. Hope, he told himself.

 

*****

 

It was clear that Walder intended to follow that old man, and just as much clear was that it’s not an easy task. Soon Jon realised that the old man didn’t want to be followed, even though he could not have seen them. He took every turn there was, zigzagging his way across the city. Jon thanked the gods for the festival, the streets buzzing with life, easier to hide. The old man reached one of the bridges.

“Shit,” Walder hissed.

“What is it?”

“That’s where I used to hide.”

They took the steps, walking past the entrance of the catacombs. Jon wondered why not go in, after the old man for he was certain that’s where he went, he was no longer ahead of them. But Walder lead them away, until they turned alongside the river, and there, he finally led them into a cellar.

Except it wasn’t a cellar. Walder pushed aside a shelf, and behind it, a cave emerged. Jon shivered – he’s had enough of caves for a lifetime. Yet he walked in, following Walder, Humfrey behind him.

He realised before he could see. He could hear them.

“Anyone followed you,” asked a man.

“None,” a woman responded, “They’re drunk. The whole city is drunk. You?”

“I thought there were three,” the man said. “Turns out they weren’t after robbing an old man.”

“You should’ve cut them down,” the woman declared.

“There is time for everything,” the man’s voice betrayed confidence, “Not worth the effort, slaying some cutthroats. Drawing attention.”

Then Walder reached the end of the cave. They all peaked out, to see.

The old man was not there. Jon thought of asking but then realised, of course. The man wore the face of the old man. Arya knew, she knew the face. Meaning, she surely knew the man wearing it.

“There are developments,” the woman spoke. She was slender, expensively clothed, her long dark hair brushed her waist. And she was a beauty, too. She sounded like an Essosi, but her dress betrayed Westerosi custom.

“Our time of waiting is over,” she said. “The Wolf has been slain.”

“So I hear,” the man spoke. Jon studied him. His face was peaceful, his muddy blonde toned hair barely below his shoulders, and he was tall but didn’t seem particularly strong. Indeed, he wore the robes of the old man. “One of mine.”

“One of yours,” the woman nodded, “But you could’ve never done it without our aid. We got him out into the open.”

“I heard that too,” the man said, his face emotionless. “I hear your Dornish burned dozens of pigs in the caves. He got lucky; the Wolf was in one of them.”

“Where else could he have been,” the woman hissed.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t matter,” a man stepped forward. Short and fat, Jon wondered where he’s seen him before.

“It is time,” the woman said to the tall man, “You and I have orders. Have you found out what we asked?”

“Indeed, I have,” the tall man smirked. “There is about twenty of them, in the catacombs under the library of the Citadel. My friends are searching the library to find a way.”

“She’ll do it,” the short fat man spoke, “Isn’t that what your father wants?”

“She cannot do it, idiot,” the woman hissed, “If she does it, they’ll be bound to her.”

As far as I know, that can be changed,” the short fat man argued, “The Wolf did it.”

“The Wolf had the blood,” the woman said.

“You have the blood just the same,” the short fat man argued. The woman rolled her eyes.

“I am not the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen now am I?!”

The short fat man took a step back. “Get ready, magister,” the woman told him, “Soon we’ll have need of the ships. You,” her eyes turned to the tall man, “You shall join your friends. We cannot do without knowing the way; you must find it.”

“That was not part of the plan,” the tall man said nonchalantly.

“I know, and I know you aren’t keen on returning to Westeros,” the woman spoke, softer this time, “But that is my father’s order. I shall sail with you, in any case.”

“I need no chaperone,” the man said.

“No, but I have my own orders,” the woman declared, “It is time to act upon them.”

“Orders,” the short fat man asked.

“Yes, orders,” the woman shrugged, “We won’t fail again. This time, we are prepared for every eventuality.”

“And what eventuality could require your presence,” the short fat man asked.

“It is merely insurance, no more,” she said nonchalantly, “In case my father’s way would prove to be… less than effective. This time, we are prepared to do it the traditional way.”

“And what shall I be doing,” the short fat magister asked. “Sit around with ships?”

“No, magister,” the woman said, “Take the ships from the purple harbour, sail straight to Bhorash. They shall have need of those ships very soon, as I said.”

She pulled her hood on her head, “I wish you good fortune,” she said, and swiftly left. The short fat magister merely looked at the tall man, not unlike Sam would look at someone when he’s embarrassed and lost for words, but then he rushed out of the catacombs as well, right the way Walder didn’t have them use.

Walder. Jon looked around, but Walder was no longer with them. Humfrey only shook his head, Jon couldn’t not notice the solemn expression on his face.


	92. Epilogue - Braavos III.

 

“Your grace.”

Sansa turned toward the door; the voice seemed foreign. An Essosi stood in the open door, bowing deeply to her. He didn’t look like a soldier, indeed he looked more similar to Tycho Nestoris than any of his guards...

“My name is Noho Dimittis,” the man declared, “I represent the Iron Bank in certain matters. I received orders this morning to remain in your service as you please, with twenty men.”

“Twenty men?”

“Twenty, your grace,” Dimittis repeated with a slight grin, “Tycho’s requirements in the matter were made most clear, your grace. Six men will guard the door of your chamber, in three shifts daily. Four men shall be by your side at any time, thus none shall be able to disturb you lest you allow it, wherever you go. I shall be at your service as you require while overseeing the men. I am a councillor, Lord Nestoris mentioned you have plans to expand this settlement and believes that I my experience could prove useful in your endeavours.”

“That is nineteen,” Sansa remarked, ignoring the introduction altogether.

“The twentieth man, your grace, is not from my service,” Dimittis said somewhat hesitantly.

“No, he is in Lord Nestoris’ employment,” Sansa gave the man a warm smile, “He is one of … them. You know.”

Dimittis nodded.

“I asked Lord Nestoris that the men present themselves to me,” Sansa said, “For my benefit, so I know their faces. All of them, has he told you thus?”

Dimittis now looked even more hesitant, even embarrassed. “The man you enquire after,” he said, taking a step closer, “In his profession, remaining in the shadows is imperative.”

“Has Lord Nestoris told you to present them all to me?”

“He has, you grace, but as he asked me to provide you with counsel…”

“I understand, my lord,” Sansa raised her hand to silence the man, “They all need to present themselves to me. Then they can work as ordered and preferred, as long as they report to me as I require, but this is not something I can overlook. This man…” Sansa seemed to look for words, “I am glad for one such as him in my service, to speak the truth. However, I rather would be able to recognise him, it would be for my benefit.”

“I understand, your grace,” Dimittis nodded, “And forgive me if I overstepped my position.”

“You haven’t overstepped your position, my Lord, I welcome wise counsel. At times I am unable to follow said counsel, that is all.”

“Which is only natural, your grace,” the man smiled. “I shall ready the men, and return. Also, Tycho was most adamant to advise you, we have our own provisions including our tents. We shall have no want whatsoever, your grace, we are keen not to increase your burdens.”

“That is most considerate, my lord… forgive me, your name…”

“Noho Dimittis, your grace, at your service.” The man bowed, and left, closing the door behind himself. Sansa listened to the departing steps.

She stood, and walked to the door, opening it slightly. She peaked out. She could see two men standing by the door. They were armoured men, with sword and lance both. They didn’t move, didn’t even glance back at her. She closed the door, leaning against it.

This better work, else she’s just willingly imprisoned herself.

 

*****

 

“Jaqen H’Ghar.”

Arya stepped closer, just as the man turned.

“Arya Stark of Winterfell,” he said, slight grin in the corner of his mouth. “You were going home last I saw you.”

“I went home,” she said, “And I fought the dead.”

Anger rushed through Jaqen’s face. “What business brings a lady of Westeros back to Braavos?”

“I am no lady,” Arya hissed. Her eyes were counting the candles.

“No, you are not,” Jaqen agreed. “Ladies stay in their castles in Westeros.”

“I have no castle,” Arya shrugged.

“Is that what brought Arya Stark back to Braavos?”

“No,” Arya’s eyes met his. “I came to promise three names to the Many-faced God.”

Jaqen raised an eyebrow at that. “That is unexpected,” he remarked.

“Is it,” she threw three small pouches at Jaqen. He caught them. “Three names.”

“Let’s hear them, then,” Jaqen remarked.

“Therein lies my problem,” Arya said, slowly beginning to walk past him. When she reached the other side, standing right between him and the way out, she turned toward him once more. “I don’t know their names yet.”

“You can’t promise a name you don’t know, Arya Stark.”

“Oh, I know that. That is why I am talking to you, Jaqen.”

“I cannot change this,” Jaqen remarked. “Go and find the names.”

“I’ve come to find the names,” Arya studied him as she spoke. “You are going to give them to me, Jaqen.”

Jaqen H’Ghar merely chuckled at that.

“The name of the woman you just spoke with, and that of her father. And the Dornish.”

“The Dornish,” Jaqen asked.

“The Dornish who burned those fucking pigs in the caves,” Arya scoffed.

Jaqen took a deep breath.

“The girl mourns,” he said, “Lost yet one more of your family. I cannot help you, Arya Stark. Albeit the names you wish to promise are most interesting, the payment made would not cover even just one of them.”

“I thought as much,” she said calmly, “they are illustrious names, aren’t they? The Dornish… Dayne. Gerold Dayne.”

Jaqen flinched, only slightly but Arya noticed.

“So that is indeed his name,” she grinned. “As for the woman and her father… I am lenient toward an exchange.”

“An exchange?”

“An exchange,” Arya repeated. “You’ve not gone deaf, have you, having to have everything repeated so you can get it. I am willing to exchange the woman and her father for a new name, and that is because you are right. I am here because of my cousin and those who hunted him, like an animal. Your choice, Jaqen.”

Jaqen glanced into the pouches, nodding. “The name you seek is known to you already, you met the girl who sold water on the road to Myr.”

“When have I met her?”

“When you learned how to peel potatoes.”

“Hmmmm,” Arya hummed. Of course she knew the name now, Umma it was. She also knew, once she spoke the name, Jaqen would take it. The game would be over. “I don’t remember her name.”

“That is your problem, Arya Stark,” Jaqen declared, “You cannot promise a name you don’t remember.”

She sighed. “Fine then,” she stood straight, her hand resting on Needle by her side. “I made payment, and I don’t have the names, not that of the woman, or her father, or the girl on the road… But I still have one more name, and I won’t waste the payment. Jaqen H’Ghar. That is the name I speak.”

Jaqen stood still, his face turning sour in an instant. A familiar expression, Arya thought, from years ago. Back then, she said the name out of desperation, of anger – and it worked. And now? One glance at his face assured her, it still worked. Some things don’t change, the fanatism, so strong it borders stupidity, it was the same she knew.

“This is no game, Arya Stark.”

“No, it is not,” she said, “I’ve given you two names. I paid for three, at the least you shall give me the two whose name I spoke.”

“The girl’s name is Umma,” Jaqen declared.

“And what of it,” Arya shrugged. “You want your name taken back, don’t you? Why should I settle now for the kitchen maid?”

“She sold the water to your cousin,” Jaqen declared, “The Long Farewell, she poured it into the cup.”

“That, she did,” Arya grinned, “I know, Jon was drinking blue stuff from vials for days after it.”

Jaqen’s face turned from sour to confused, then shocked.

“And now, we shall have a proper conversation,” Arya continued, “Seeing that we’ve gained an equal footing. You give me what I want, and perhaps I will give you what you want.”

“You want their names,” Jaqen said, visibly shaken, “I don’t know their names. She is known as the Lady, that is how I know her, and her father is the Lord. No one speaks their names, for reason you can now see yourself. Take it back.”

“Why, you’ve given me nothing,” Arya shrugged, “I still can’t promise their names.”

“Perhaps a trade,” Jaqen insisted, “I give you a new name. Bessaro Reyaan, the fat magister who was just here. Without him, the Lord will be stuck in the Bay of Dragons.”

“And what good would that name give me,” Arya scoffed, “The Lord would buy more ships from elsewhere. That is nothing.”

“The name you spoke,” Jaqen rushed the words, “That name you know. That is the name of the Dornish, he serves the Lord.”

“He serves the Lord…” Arya wondered, a grin forming her face. Jaquen and all these Essosi – in truth their knowledge of Westeros was quite limited. Just as Westerosi viewed the Essosi as some kind of strange experiment of a different system, with exotic beliefs and no regard to values that mean something in Westeros, the Essosi looked down on Westeros the exact same way: stuck in the past, limited by the values they held in high regard, while stepping on each other in the shadows. But Westerosi knew Westerosi, and there was one who knew more of Dornish than Arya, for sure. “Humfrey, have you heard that?”

Jaqen turned, toward where the noise came from, as Humfrey stepped forward.

“Knight of some place, you said…” Arya began.

“High Hermitage,” Humfrey declared, as he walked to Jaqen and pushed the man down to the ground. “Better on your knees, dead man.”

“Where does he owe fealty to,” Arya asked, “I can’t recall anything about High Hermitage.”

“Starfall.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me,” Arya glanced at Jaqen, “The Daynes of Starfall would not meddle in affairs like this Dornish does. They were loyal to Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“They were,” Humfrey agreed. “Don’t ask for the woman’s name, I know it.”

“You do?”

Humfrey’s eyes were fixed on Humfrey. “I do, but I will not speak it.”

“Speak it,” Jaqen hissed in desperation.

“I will not,” Humfrey declared, his eyes full of hatred, “That would be easy for you, wouldn’t it. You take the name, whether I’m right or wrong, in exchange for yours. I will not speak it.

“Whether you’re right or wrong,” Arya repeated.

“I think I’m right.”

“How can you be sure,” Arya asked annoyed, albeit she could see the reason in not discoursing the name aloud. She didn’t want to have her own trick used against her with Umma’s name, she wouldn’t make it easy with another name spoken either.

“My father petitioned Starfall once, one of my sisters for Lord Edric’s hand. He’s a boy of ten at the time, mind you. Still, Lord Edric turned him down, said he won’t enter into matrimony before Darkstar. The boy thought Darkstar a hero, no doubt, prey to whatever game was unfolding in Starfall. My father replied that he’d then propose the same to this Darkstar, and another of his daughters to Lord Edric, since he had eight daughters… But the reply came not to bother. Darkstar will not consider it. Father didn’t understand but left it. But I understood, when I travelled Essos.”

“Forgive me,” Arya turned toward Humfrey annoyed, “Why is this tale relevant?”

“Because Ser Gerold Dayne is Darkstar,” Humfrey grinned.

“Speak the name, Jaqen said, “Speak the name you want, and the Many-faced God shall receive what is his. Your cousin will be avenged.”

“Why would I want my cousin avenged," Arya shrugged.

“Arya stark wants revenge for her murdered family,” Jaqen declared, “She always did.

Humfrey glanced aside at Arya. For a moment, she only studied Jaqen.

“You don’t know what I want,” she hissed, “In more ways than one. I want to know what is under the library of the Citadel, twenty of it…”

“Don’t trade that, either,” Humfrey grinned, “I know that, too.”

“You are really taking the fun out of my game,” Arya grinned at Humfrey.

“Humfrey,” Jaqen said then, “The many-faced God once was promised that name. It was an illustrious name, Westerosi, of a boy who killed a man in Lys.”

Arya’s eyes grew wide at Humfrey.

“And has he been given what was promised,” Humfrey shrugged, “Your many-faced God, have you given him that boy’s life.”

“He gave another in his stead,” Jaqen declared, “He gave one of mine instead.”

“So, there is a way to take back any name,” Arya concluded, “That boy has done it, I’ve done it. Those who give you yours in return are free, having traded their name. You should’ve called off your dogs long ago in that case. My cousin cut the throat of the first one you sent the night we arrived in Braavos.”

“There is no such way,” Jaqen shook his head, “I just didn’t consider the boy worth the effort to hunt him down after he disappeared, no doubt running back to that tall white tower of his. As for the girl… I promised that name. Arya Stark.”

“You promised my name!” Arya shouted.

“No one leaves the House, Arya Stark,” Jaqen declared.

“No one hunted me,” she recalled.

“No one hunts anyone,” Jaqen nodded. Humfrey turned away as he uttered some inaudible curse. The man annoyed him, now that he figured who the man really was.

“You know what I meant,” Arya said.

“I exchanged it,” Jaqen explained then, “The girl’s name, I exchanged it. I liked the girl. When I was given a different name, an illustrious name, one I had reason to promise myself… I exchanged it.”

“With the name of my cousin. Why?! You’ve never even met Jon!”

“Why does the many-faces God want the name of Azor Ahai reborn...”

“Because he defeated the Other,” Arya scoffed. “He defeated YOUR GOD.”

“No one defeats Death, Arya Stark. Regardless, perhaps the girl should exchange the name she spoke,” Jaqen continued, “Seeing that the girl lives. Honour demands it.”

“Honour demands it,” Humfrey yelled as he turned and slapped the kneeling man in the face. “What’s the honour in wearing dead people’s faces assassinating whomever you’re paid to kill?!”

“You want your name taken back,” Arya said calmly, “But you’ve given us nothing for it in return.”

“I’ve given you the magister, I’ve given you the Dornish, and the girl who killed your cousin, Arya Stark,” Jaqen said, “And I spared your life.”

“You say you traded it for my cousin’s,” Arya remarked, “I don’t see any sparing in that. How many Faceless have we killed?”

“Five,” Humfrey declared.

“Five,” Arya repeated, “That is five lost to you, and one more, for I gave the Waif to your Many-faced God. But in your quest to give the man whose name you traded for mine, you lost five. That, if you ask me, is not exactly profitable, seeing how futile it was.”

“It was not futile, Arya Stark,” Jaqen said angrily. “For all that is coming, the Many-faced God will receive every name ever promised, boys in high towers, and little girls… and tall girls alike, brown haired girls, auburn haired girls and silver haired girls. Queen in the North, Queen in the South… Westeros will fall, Arya Stark. A new age is coming, and Azor Ahai will not be there to save you from it. That, for five of mine, is a fine trade.”

“Westeros will fall,” Arya repeated, looking into the distance, deep into the catacombs. Humfrey’s eyes followed his, before he spoke.

“You, Jaqen H’Ghar, whose name has been promised, tell me, how does a Faceless die when their name is promised? Do you fall on your sword? Or do you prefer some potion that puts you to sleep…”

“Before another Waif comes and skins your face,” Arya added.

“Whatever it is,” Humfrey grinned, “Something tells me you’ll be spared of it. Speak up. How would Westeros fall, then.”

“That,” Jaqen H’Ghar’s eyes met Humfrey’s, “is not worth trading for my name. You will not get any more from me.”

 

“That’s a shame.”

Now Jaqen finally turned, to see who spoke, who these two were staring at. Jon stepped forward from the shadows.

“Do you know who I am,” he asked, “I am not no one.”

“Arya Stark has Volantene sellswords doing her work?” Jaqen asked instead. Arya laughed aloud.

“If I want to kill you, I don’t need anyone to do the work in my stead,” she declared, “The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword. You are not sentenced by me; I am merely a messenger.”

“And what is the message?”

Jon leaned down to face the kneeling man. “Anyone who moves against me, anyone who betrays me,” his eyes pierced Jaqen’s, “I don’t care who they are, where they are, what moved them against me. Their life is mine, not some God’s. I am no God. Do you know who I am?”

Jaqen studied the face, flames around the eyes, down on the neck the skin under them clearly scarred by fire.

“Five,” Jon chuckled dismissively as he stood straight once more, “It’s true, five of yours and you couldn’t even finish the job.”

Jaqen gasped.

“Now you see why I could never take your name back,” Arya smiled, “It’s not mine.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jon stepped back from the kneeling man. “The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword. Seeing that you declared yourself useless while admitted to your crimes… I, Jon Targaryen sentence you to die.”

He turned and swung his sword, beheading the kneeling man.

 

Arya watched the head roll away.

“I think he would’ve talked some more,” she said calmly.

“I think he talked long enough,” Jon scoffed, as he wiped the sword on the dead man’s robes, before raising it up in front of him. It was Jon Connington’s sword, Griff fought the dead with it. Well made, sturdy. It wasn’t Blackfyre. It wasn’t even Valyrian Steel, Griff had little chance against the dead with it. No wonder he nearly died there. Jon sheathed the sword by his side.

“Who’s the woman,” he demanded as his eyes settled on Humfrey.

“Arianne Martell,” Humfrey shrugged. “Rumour has it, Dayne has a thing for her, begged for her hand for years. My sister told me.”

“Your sister told you,” Arya’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes, Lynesse told me, before she had her tongue cut out and her throat slit and somehow her dead body found its way into the sea,” Humfrey sighed. “It’s true I killed a man, the one she was with, Tregar Ormollen. He was supposed to protect her. Instead, he held her like a prisoner, sold her like an exotic whore. I suppose for Essosi, Westerosi ladies are exotic. Then I found her, and she didn’t want to leave. She said, if not Ormollen then the Martells would find her. I never really understood it. She just told me to beware of Darkstar, their lapdog, drooling over Arianne Martell, following every command like a good hound does. That is why it was futile for father to attempt at any marital alliance.”

“You say that was Arianne Martell we saw,” Jon raised an eyebrow.

“How could I tell,” Humfrey shrugged, “I’ve never seen her. Could be.”

“Well, since we didn’t ask, we won’t know for certain,” Arya declared.

“He would’ve never told us,” Jon glanced at the headless body. “Who was he anyway.”

“As far as I know, their leader,” Arya said lowly, “He trained me.” She moved closer to the head, crouching down she studied it.

“What’s under the library in the Citadel,” she asked, her eyes fixed on those of the head.

“Dragon eggs. The maesters opposed magic for centuries, believe that with magic gone, the seasons would become more bearable. Shorter. Dragons are magic, so the maesters had the eggs collected and locked away so no one could attempt at them. They’re turned to stone by now anyway.”

“Have you seen them,” Arya asked.

“No one has seen them,” Humfrey’s answer came. “Only the Grand Maester is allowed there. He’s in my father’s pocket, that is all. There’s no Citadel without Hightower.”

“So Baelor knows about them,” Jon asked impatiently.

“All of us know about them,” Humfrey smiled, “Though who believes is another question. I didn’t believe it until today. Like I said, they must’ve been there for a while now, surely, they turned to stone. Or dust.”

“Dany hatched three dragons out of three eggs turned to stone,” Jon remarked.

“The magister said something,” Humfrey nodded, “She said, this one is to go to the Citadel and find ‘a way’, and the magister declared, ‘she’ would do it. Then that ‘Lady’ argued they’d be bound to her.”

“Must have referred to Daenerys,” Jon thought aloud, “and a way to hatch those eggs. Far-fetched, as it is, I’ve seen bigger miracles come to pass.”

“Aye, ice spiders,” They both turned to Arya. Their faces were quickly overtaken by shock. She was skinning the head, her hands working at it swiftly, expertly. “Dead men, dragons, not to mention the red priestess bringing you back from death. I say, they mean to hatch those eggs. Which is why this one should arrive there.”

She finished, and stood, the skin in her hand. “To steal those eggs.”

“What?”

“If Daenerys could hatch dragon eggs, you can, too,” Arya shrugged, “I doubt she did it by sitting on them”.

“She walked into fire with them, Arya, she doesn’t burn. I do burn. And I don’t think we need baby dragons,” Jon smiled, “They are tiny apparently and take years to grow. It’s why Dany waited for so long before she came to Westeros.”

“Thought she waited because she was freeing slaves.”

“That, too.”

“You can’t just put on his face and go,” Humfrey interrupted their conversation. “He’s had others there, you won’t know whom, or what they know. Not to mention you can’t just walk into the Citadel.”

“No, but you can,” Jon turned toward him, “There’s no Citadel without Hightower, that is what you said. You can walk into the Citadel. Arya only needs to hide in the shadows.”

“So you agree,” Arya glanced at Jon, “We need them eggs.”

“I don’t agree,” Jon’s voice was firm, “I don’t think they’re worth anything, but seeing that whomever we are up against believes otherwise, I say we should thwart their plans. And I wouldn’t mind cleansing the Citadel from the Faceless that this one sent.”

“Aye,” Arya nodded, “They won’t be Faceless anymore. They’ll be wearing the faces of maesters.”

Humfrey sighed at that.

“The maesters are stubborn and selfish, and sometimes outright dumb,” he whispered, “But they don’t deserve that fate. No one does.”

“We have a plan then,” Jon declared.

“That’s hard not knowing anything,” Humfrey smiled, “We still know almost nothing.”

“Aye,” Jon grinned, “But we know whom to ask. And where we can find the man.”

“What man?” Arya stood still, tucking the skin into her bag.

“What was the name of that magister this one was so eager to trade?”

“Bessaro Reyaan.”

“That one.”

 

*****

 

Breathe. Slowly, in and out.

Sansa sat in her chair, covered in furs. She’s turned the chair slightly, a while ago, now it was no longer facing the window. Now she could see the door.

Finally, she could hear steps. Many steps, strong steps – soldiers. Her heart jumped to her throat as she heard the trapping sound of the guard at the door stepping aside. Soft knock followed.

“Come in,” she said, her voice raspy. She needed water. Or something much stronger, if she survived this, she told herself.

“Noho Dimittis,” she smiled faintly as she recognised the man who entered first. Behind him, more men. As he stepped in, they were slowly flowing into the room, one by one. Dimittis stepped to her, as she stood, setting the furs aside. Then she thought better, and wrapped one around her. Should mute a little, whatever attack would come. Should hide her hand on the white wolf pommel, prepared as if she could fend off an attack by any of these men.

They lined up, seventeen. Then after a moment, the guards stepped in and closed the door.

 

For a moment she stood motionless, studying them. Her hand reached for the cup on the table beside her, while her eyes kept scanning the faces. She found the cup, as expected she knocked it, and it fell, spilling its contents all over her.

“Oh my goodness,” she yelled, hurriedly trying to clean up the wine from her skirt, as if she forgot herself. Dimittis came to help, but as she rubbed the dress, she paid no attention to Dimittis. She listened to the muted shuffling.

A man moved toward the door.

“Where are you going,” Sansa asked sternly, “I may be clumsy, but I still expect your respect.”

“Forgive me Your Grace,” the man said, “Noise outside. I am on guard duty.”

“You’ll learn soon enough that there are always noises outside,” she smiled, “You stood guard for a few hours only. As the evening nears, you’ll see the same pattern. The surrounding chambers are all occupied, by Northern lords and Ladies, and Lord Hightower and his wife. They do use the corridors. I presume it was Lady Desmera’s skirts you heard. Unless you’re afraid of a woman’s skirts, but then you should not be standing in front of me now…”

The man nodded, as he stepped back into the line.

“So, these are the men,” she glanced at Dimittis, “I trust they aren’t scared of women’s skirts.”

Some of the men chuckled.

“Your master commanded Lord Dimittis to provide guard to me,” she turned toward the men, walking toward the end of the line, looking at each face. “I am not always so… Anyways, if you serve me well, you’ll find it easy to serve me. I don’t ask for much. I suppose it helps if you know my daily routine.”

She reached the end of the line, and turned. At the other end, her eyes settled on the door, only for a moment, before she resumed the walk. “I wake early. The servants bring hot water for bath every morning. I break my fast in one of the common halls, I like to choose a different one each morning. The people have to see us, and me, among them, and that is easiest if I chose a different one every day. I walk, sometimes a long walk, to the hall of my choice, and I walk back. The people do approach me, and I ask you to be kind with them. During the days I have meetings, some here and some in the council chamber. Then it’s the same at supper, before I retire.” The door seemed so far away still.

“Sometimes, I join the sewing group, when I have no meetings, and no one seeks audience, sometimes I go and speak to those in the kitchens… but after a while you’ll find, it really is the same. There’s little diversity to it. I would appreciate my door guarded, even if I am away from it. I understand that there shall be three shifts of guards, so that is feasible. And four of you shall also join me wherever I go. I expect your discretion regarding what you hear and witness.” Just a few steps more.

“Which one of them is it,” she glanced back at Dimmitis, “My special assistance, which of them is it.”

Dimittis nodded slightly. A man stepped forward from the line, behind her. The face was familiar, but she couldn’t place it anywhere. She only nodded, turning back to her walk. She heard the man stepping in line.

“I am told you have accommodation and supplies,” she said, as she took the last steps, to reach the last man, walk past him. She turned. “However, if you have any need, or want, I would have you come to me. Your presence here is of great assistance to me, and as such much appreciated. If I can ease your service, do not hesitate to speak up. Here in this camp we are not of different backgrounds, but one big family, working together to survive this winter. We aid our family.”

We aid our family.

A moment passed, and she took a step back from the last man, toward the door. The moment was so long, like a whole lifetime, as she felt her heartbeat in her throat, once, twice… her eyes found the man. The face. She knew now where she knew it from.

 

Then the door opened. She felt the arms pulling her back, she saw the door slammed shut in front of her. Baelor Hightower locked it with its key.

Rumble and screams, commotion followed. She stood; her eyes fixed on the door. She stood there for minutes, listening to the screams and shouts of men, the clashing of steel.

Then steps, nearing. Knock. Knock-knock-knock. Knock.

“It is done, my lord.” A voice said on the other side.

Sansa exhaled, slowly, as Lord Baelor opened the door once more. The captain of the Hightower guard stood there. As far as Sansa could see, behind him was carnage.

She stepped into the room.

Some of those faces she studied earlier were now lifelessly staring at something on the floor. But not all. Her ‘special assistance” was on his knees like the rest of those that survived the attack.

“Take off that face,” she hissed. “Take it off, it belonged to a Westerosi soldier who fought things you cannot even imagine. You had no right!”

“Your Grace,” she heard Dimittis behind her.

“That man saved my life,” she said calmly. “At the Gods Eye, as the dead rose from the ground, that man called out to me, provisioned a horse for me, waited for me and fought for me while we escaped. And you repaid him by taking his life so you could wear his face and deceive me.”

“Your Grace,” Dimittis tried again.

She took a step closer to the man she identified, her hand waving at Baelor Hightower to stay back. Then she drew Longclaw.

“The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword,” she said, her voice firm and clear, strong once more like the Queen she was. “You are a murderer. You murder innocents for your own gain, for money, for betrayal and deceit… You murdered the man who saved my life. I, Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, sentence you to die.”

Her words were full of the hatred and the anger she felt, the adrenaline that caught up with her after the attack, and the success of it. She nodded and the guard standing behind the kneeling man kicked on the man’s back. He fell forward, and in that moment, Sansa slit his throat.

Then she turned toward Noho Dimittis.

“Your master that snake intended to leave this one behind anyway,” she said, “Whether we approved or not.” She took a deep breath. “Your master is right, Westeros has changed. We are nobody’s pawns, in nobody’s games. Take them. Double the guard at their cells, no one is to speak to them.”

She already turned toward Baelor, seeing his nod to his men to obey her command.

“Tycho Nestoris will not like this,” she could hear Dimittis behind her.

“That is of no concern,” Lord Baelor declared, “Tycho Nestoris is no one here. A business partner fully paid. The Iron Bank isn’t the only one always recovering their debt, Lord Dimittis. Someone always pays, isn’t that how the saying goes? Someone always pays.”

Sansa waited until the men were dragged out of her chamber. More Hightower men came and took the bodies away.

“We lost two,” the captain began his report, “But they lost seven. Eight, with the one the Queen executed.”

Baelor nodded. “Give them proper burials,” he said lowly.

“I am sorry,” Sansa gave him an apologetic smile.

“They did their duty,” Baelor said looking around. She looked around as well. The room, scarce as it was, now looked like the site of a battle.

“Perhaps it is better if the servants move your bed to Lord Reed’s chamber for the night,” Baelor said.

“Or every night to come,” Sansa added. “I would never have sleep here again.” Her eyes found Lord Reed, standing at the adjoining door. His face was grim, but also resolute. Even satisfied perhaps.

“And so we are in the game again,” he said before he turned, and left the chamber.

“And so we are,” Sansa whispered, taking one last look around.

 

*****

 

“I remember,” Jon chuckled, “Howland Reed counselled Dany, wed me to Arianne Martell. That shall bring Dorne to the fold.”

Walder laughed aloud.

“Perhaps a single combat? You and the Dornish. I’d like to see that. If you intend to reward treason with matrimony.”

“We cannot be certain,” Jon sighed, “Humfrey has never seen her. We cannot be certain, and I would not accuse anyone of treason until I am certain.”

The old man stopped. Jon looked up, taking in the sight.

“The Purple Harbour,” Walder declared, “These ships belong to the Iron Bank, in one way or another.”

“And the Bank sold them to the Dornish and his ‘Lord’,” Jon added.

“The magister sold them,” Humfrey corrected, “Let us remain factual. It is no proof against the Bank. It is proof against that fat magister.”

“Which is why, if you forgive me, I have to leave you for a moment,” Walder declared, before he stepped back into the shadows. “You just go ahead,” they could hear his voice, “I shall catch up with you, once you found the magister.”

“If he’s even here,” Humfrey said lowly.

“He is here,” Jon gave him a nod as he resumed their slow walk, out to the pier. There were no beggars, no cheap stalls here. Wealthy men and women in expensive robes and dresses, a few shops selling more expensive fabrics, furs, jewellery. This wasn’t a normal harbour.

“Not all of these ships bear the sigil of the Iron Bank,” he remarked.

“No, Braavosi can use the harbour,” Humfrey nodded, “And no one else. They favour their own.” That, they do. The streets leading here were all cobbled, and not only were there no beggars, but even the brothels seemed far superior. There were mummer’s playhouses – Walder explained which is the Blue Lantern, which is the Dome – and inns and alehouses, all neat and clean and orderly, as Jon looked in, he could see. The hot food smelled like proper food, of roast and various spiced delicacies, not like the cheap stews one could get near Ragnar’s Harbour.

Jon glanced down at a window stall. The bread looked delicious, made of clean flour, freshly baked. He was hungry. He searched in his pocket, only to realise – he gave his coins to the old woman.

“Two of those buns,” Humfrey stopped at the stall, tossing four titans on the table.

“For two more,” the man spoke, “the buns will have bacon and cheese in them.”

“Two of those, then,” Humfrey gave him a grin, as two more titans joined the four. He took the two buns that the man neatly folded into clean parchment, and gave one to Jon.

“The downside of good deeds,” Jon smiled, “Thank you.”

“We may as well spend the coin we all have,” Humfrey shrugged, “I don’t think we’ll return to Braavos.”

“Why you think so?” Jon asked, genuinely curious. He bit into the bun. It was still hot, almost too hot. Melted cheese flowed in the middle of it around a thick slice of bacon. It was delicious.

“We should do things like this at home,” he said, mouth full, “Put the bacon into the bun.”

“Perhaps you should rule it, when we get back home,” Humfrey smiled. “I could break fast with one of these every day. Though I’d grow fat eating this type of bread. I can taste the fat they use in it. If you rule it, you ought to forbid it to my brother.”

“It’s still good,” Jon nodded with a laugh, turning toward him while still walking. “I could break fast with cheese every morning. The Lady…”

He bumped into someone and turned.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, trying his best to smile, while taking in the sight. His mind wondered how fast he can return to this new character of his. What an unexpected development this was.

The lady standing in front of him was the one in the catacombs earlier. Now Jon studied her, the silk dress she wore, tied in the front in Westerosi fashion; and the long, hooded fur she covered herself with. She was in truth quite comely. Beautiful even. But her dark eyes couldn't have been colder even if they were blue as ice.

“Will you step aside or what?” She scoffed.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Jon swallowed the bite he by now overchewed, “once more. I just wondered what a comely lass like yourself does wandering around by herself so late in the day. Perhaps you require an escort, the sun will be down in a blink. Beautiful lasses in expensive furs don’t fare well in the dark.”

“Says a Volantene fire worshipper,” she shrugged, “You know nothing of lasses.”

“Oh I do know quite a lot,” Jon grinned, “But I wouldn’t insult you by indulging you with the details. Unless that is what you desire of course. Who would say no to such a beauty?”

“Then perhaps you ought to step aside,” she declared, “Seeing that you stand no chance at anything else.”

Jon grinned at her once more, as he leaned close, “I know your kind. All good and comely on the outside, and once the expensive furs come off…”

The slap he got stung on his face, but he laughed. “A fiery one, you are, I see.”

“Step aside, ser,” she hissed.

“Are you sure, lass,” Jon asked, “The night is dark and full of terrors.”

“One day that will catch up with your lot,” she said, her face full of disgust, “Mocking the words of your God.”

“Oh I was not mocking,” Jon laughed, “The night is full of terrors, for frail little lasses. You need a strong man to protect you. Me and my friend here just happen to be free, we could escort you home, I said so.”

“And I said I don’t want it!”

“You actually haven’t said so,” Jon laughed, “Until now. Well then, should you change your mind…” He leaned close to her once more, “Come down to the inn by the Sealord’s Palace. We shall sup there later. Don’t spend your night alone, it’s too boring for a fiery little lass like you.”

He stepped aside, wide grin on his face, watching as she stormed past. He was right, there were no guards rushing after her.

“Perhaps we should follow her,” Humfrey whispered in his ear.

“No, we need the magister,” Jon said, his eyes fixed on the woman disappearing in the crowd.

“You know that you spoke in your Northern accent,” Humfrey asked.

“Aye, I did,” Jon said, “I wanted her to wonder.”

“You really believe she’d bite on that offer?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Jon shrugged it off as he resumed his walk. The bun was barely warm now, he noted with a sigh. “We shall be there anyways.”

“And if she figures, she will come and try to kill you,” Humfrey sighed.

“She won’t figure,” Jon glanced back, “Nobody is that smart.”

They walked and ate, Jon studying the ships. His mind began to question his decision not to follow the woman, if it was worth it seeing that there was no sign of the magister. They almost reached the end of the pier. But then, at the second to last ship, they found him.

The man was even fatter than he seemed in the darkness of the catacombs. They stopped and waited, until the sailors who the magister spoke with have left him. He was about to leave, when Jon stepped forward.

“You there,” he called out. “Magister of the Iron Bank. Are you the one to talk to about booking passage?”

“You won’t be booking passage on these ships,” the man talked him down while he studied Jon, “These are ships of the Iron Bank.”

“Who else to trust these days but the Bank,” Jon grinned, once more in this stupid cocky character he imagined for himself – as much as he could pretend to be anyone else but himself.

“That is true,” the magister spoke. “You are a Volantene.”

“Born and bred,” Jon grinned, “Albeit, I left so long ago I can’t tell you what it looks like. Which type of shit smell to associate it with.”

The magister chuckled. “You’ve been to Westeros; I hear the accent.”

“Fought dead men,” Jon shrugged. He deliberately avoided Humfrey’s piercing eyes. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“How did you get to fight the dead army,” the magister asked, clearly hooked, “As far as I know those were Westerosi armies. And the Golden Company.”

Jon laughed, “And the Rose, too. There were more of us than them, I tell you, but if you want the tale, it was by luck. Me and mine were paid to fight for some lord. Fancy name, Smallwood. Fought his liege, you know those Westerosi, they ‘bend the knee’. Anyways, to and fro, he’s got some scroll, that Aegon Targaryen reborn is fighting these dead men. He asked for volunteers, to join the fight. We volunteered, since he’s paid us, and we figured, you don’t get to fight dead men every day. Or see dragons.”

“That is true,” the magister said, “I’d much like to see them dragons.”

“I hear they are lost,” Jon nodded, pretending the chatter excited him, “I heard they flew off into the sunset. Then the men began to fall sick, you know, rotting corpses everywhere… it was time to leave. Suppose they all are dead by now. One fucking rotting land that is.”

The magister chuckled. “They have a camp, the survivors. The Queen in the North bought supplies from the Bank for them.”

“The Queen in the North,” Jon nodded, “One fine lass that is, I tell you. Tall and slim, long red hair. Wouldn’t mind that lass in the least.”

The magister’s eyes studied him, causing him to wonder if he went too far.

“What do you know about her?”

“Not much,” Jon shrugged. “Fine lasses like her give no shit about the likes of us. There were rumours…”

“Do tell,” the magister said eagerly.

“Oh no, my friend,” Jon grinned, “I know the Bank. You say that lass bought supplies. I saw those lands, there’s nothing there to pay with. Anything I tell you has just become precious in your dealings with the lass. If you want to talk, let’s talk proper.”

“Properly,” The magister gave Jon a high-headed grin, but then he paused for a moment, looking him up. Looking up Humfrey.

“You are a Westerosi.”

“I am,” Humfrey shrugged, “So what.”

“A Volantene fighting on Westeros, and a Westerosi, here in Braavos,” the magister returned his grin, “Are you trying your luck? I told you they are not dead.”

“They’re as good as dead, is what you said, magister,” Humfrey scoffed, “Why the fuck stay in that rotting wasteland, and what if they live? Fight for some fucking lord against another fucking lord? Jaerys speaks true, there’s nothing there. He told me when the dead fell, when men began to shit water twenty times a day, there’s nothing there. So I’m here. I’m a Westerosi. Let’s talk.”


	93. Epilogue - Braavos IV.

The cabin was luxurious, beyond anything Jon has seen. He expected luxury, from the outside the ship looked fit for kings and queens. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. He was a king, once. He spent the last months in caves, rationing food and water, freezing under whatever furs they had because they were cautious not to light a fire at nights. Curling up against Myra to keep warm, cursing himself about Ygritte having thought him so.

This fat magister spends his days in this kind of luxury on this ship, if not in some luxurious palace in the city, away from Ragnar’s Lane of course. The rich want none of that on their doorstep.

Slaves were waiting for them, offering them snacks and wine. They took both. They took the refills, too, once they instinctively emptied their cups in one go, Jon wondering if Humfrey thought the same. Having walked into the lion’s den, is it a lion who led them in, or the dumb sheep they expected. Humfrey’s face wasn’t telling, as he was stuffing himself.

Character, Jon reminded himself as he began doing the same. At least there’s a full stomach to be had.

“You two are hungry,” the magister grinned.

“What is your name,” Jon asked, “You better not be that Nestoris fella. Not many men I don’t want to encounter, but a man hears things.”

“Oh no,” the magister grinned, “In fact, I tell you, Tycho Nestoris is in that camp I told you about.”

“Why the fuck would a Braavosi go there,” Jon laughed.

“Why the fuck would anyone,” Humfrey corrected him, laughing with him. The magister laughed too. Good.

“He went to see for himself,” the magister began to explain as he motioned for them to sit. On the silk-covered sofas, with silk cushions. Jon wanted to scream from it by now. “My name is Bessaro. Bessaro Reyaan. I manage the fleet of the Iron Bank.”

“So indeed you are the man to talk to about hiring a ship,” Humfrey nodded.

“Indeed I am,” the magister laughed, “So as you said, Westerosi, let’s talk.”

“You want some grind on the lass,” Jon said, “The Queen.”

“And you want a ship, I take it.”

“We do.”

“Why?”

“We thought, we’d hire out one,” Jon said, “We’d sail to that rotting wasteland. Nothing happened south of their capitol, but I take it men are hungry, many mouths to feed. Ready to sell their shit for water and grain and the like. Water was of high value in their camp. Rent us a ship and we make a fortune. Pay you back the loan in six moons, I take it? Maybe less? Then it’s about profit.”

“Took you for a soldier,” the magister said, his voice so full of sarcasm, Jon had to chuckle.

“I’m done fighting,” he said. He wanted it to be true, he said these words a few times by now, did he not. “That’s what I got for fighting rotting corpses. With blue eyes.”

“I figured they must’ve been quite scary.”

“Oh no, that’s not it,” Jon laughed, “Do I look like a scared man? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you shit your pants for sure when you first see them. But magister, tell me. Who am I to fight after that? The rest is childsplay. Childsplay don’t excite me. On the other hand, you’re right. We’re hungry. I had enough of hunger, too. I figured, it’s time to make some money.”

“I see,” the magister leaned back in his chair. “You think that for some rumours I will give you a ship.”

“Oh no,” Jon laughed, “Man, I came here to strike a deal. The lass, you brought up the lass. Let’s strike a good deal, and we talk of the lass. Like good friends.”

“I see,” the magister nodded. “I wouldn’t think you having that kind of coin, though.”

“No, I don’t,” Jon chuckled, “I told you, it’s a loan. A loan for a …venture. I pay back in six moons.”

“And you tell of the Queen,” the magister added.

“Whatever,” Jon shrugged. “I tell you what we know.”

“What I can do for you is this,” the magister leaned forward, “I cannot give you a ship of the Bank. They are hired out already. There is however a matter,” the magister reached forward, and filled all their cups.

“A merchant captain brought back refugees from Lannisport. Dropped all the cargo, and the cargo was ours. Bought on a loan, not dissimilar to what you have in mind Jaerys, that’s your name?”

Jon nodded thankfully for not being asked. He forgot already.

“We’ve been patient, but the interest is stacking up, and there’s no sign of payment. The sailors, half of them already deserted the merchant, and he has nothing to pay with. Nothing, but the ship. Of course, it wouldn’t cover half the loan, but seeing that the loan is being taken over, perhaps you could help me with the other half.”

“Perhaps we could,” Jon leaned back, put some distance between the man’s face and his fist.

“Yes, that is it,” the man laughed, “It’s been a problem for a while now, Tycho will be very pleased to see it resolved.”

He stood, beginning to pace in the cabin, “Gods, how many rants I had to listen to about this. I told him, take the cargo, sell it. We can’t sell it, the Bank going against the Dragon Queen openly would not reflect well on the Bank. Cut them loose, he said. Cut them loose! Now they’re stuck in this city for what?!”

To make tapestries, Jon thought suddenly. To make tapestries of Westerosi landscapes, yearning for the home they no longer have. You fool.

“They are probably lining up at the common kitchen twice a day, and if they can’t pay even that, I bet they are all begging at Ragman’s Harbour.” Jon hated every word as he said them. But he said them regardless.

“Exactly!” the magister got overly excited, he began perspirating, the big grin constant on his face. “I told Tycho, but he didn’t listen. Finally, someone sees it! Didn’t we have enough beggars on the streets? This is our city! Our ancestors built it!”

“I am no Braavosi, magister,” Jon remarked, glancing at Humfrey still chewing on those tasty bite size fish pies as if nothing was happening, but Jon knew, Humfrey was alert. The veins stuck out on his temple as he ate – he was alert, and furious. Just like Jon felt. “Your ancestors built this great city, magister. Mine were probably whores and the like scraping by in Volantis. Or wherever, I couldn’t tell.”

“You are right, Jaerys,” the magister smiled, “And there is honour in you, not claiming that which is not your own. That, my friend is a good sign in a potential business partner.”

“If you say so, magister,” Jon shrugged.

“Oh, call me Bessaro,” the magister laughed, “We are friends now, Jaerys, friends and partners in business. I like your venture; I like it very much. You know, the ages old truth is, war is good. War makes money, one can strike it rich in war, if they know how. Seems to me that you know how, and I would be pleased to join you in this venture.”

“Join me?”

“To join you,” the magister nodded, “Why not? Share the risk, share the profits. You resolve this big problem for me, an embarrassment really. But by the time Tycho Nestoris returns, this will be dealt with, and his ventures well underway. He shall be pleased, and trust me, if he is pleased, the Bank is generous.”

“Well, we ought to keep him pleased then,” Jon nodded.

“We ought to much more,” the magister dumped himself besides Jon on the sofa. Clearly, he didn’t perceive a single glimpse of the threat he was under. “Pleasing Tycho is one thing. It helps. I mean to make money; you mean to make money. Find that captain, he’ll be at the inn besides the Sealord’s Palace. How he pays it I cannot fathom but he spends the nights there. Find him, sort out the ship as payment with him. I am sure you know how.”

Jon lost his tongue. The magister was a sheep, but so much so that he also began proving himself useless. And heartless, a man without any moral values whatsoever. It disgusted Jon. Suddenly the fish pies weren’t such a good idea in his stomach.

“We stay at that inn,” Humfrey spoke with mouth full. So much for the lordly manners, Jon wanted to laugh, in his predicament and gratitude, both. “Should be no problem. We dine there tonight, if he’s there, we find him. Then we have the ship, no problem.”

“Good,” the magister jumped for joy, “Very good! I shall provide you with sailors, it’s not a big ship, a dozen men shall work it just fine. That is it. Forget the rest, call it debt collection service charge. And the profits, we share the profits. Half-half.”

“Careful now,” Jon hissed, “I like you, Bessaro, but don’t push. Who are you insulting now, me or my Westerosi friend here? That would be one-fourth to the both of us, who do all the work. I say, one third each, equal partnership.”

The magister paused for a moment. “Equal partnership… I gift you a ship, I pay the sailors…”

“And you sit back and wait for one-third of the profits to the end of this venture without much else. I say it is fair, equality, my friend, is what makes a soldier. Know the man by your side, left and right, that they have your back. Equal men have your back.”

“Equality,” the magister nodded, “I like your explanation of it. One-third it is, then. We have a deal!”

He jumped, swiftly for the fat man he was, and picked up their cups, pressing them into their hands. “To our new venture, my friends!”

“To our new venture,” Jon raised his cup, then raised it to his lips. He didn’t drink. “I mean to set out on the morrow, Bessaro. Can you find me sailors by the morning?”

“You can find them yourself, my friend,” Bessaro laughed, his hand searching in his pocket. A pouch emerged. He emptied it on the small table in front of them, counting twelve coins. They weren’t titans, but Jon recognised them. Glancing at Humfrey, he recognised them, too. Arya had a coin like these.

“Here,” the magister began brushing toward Jon the twelve coins. “Take these, once you sorted the magister, come to the ship. It’s called Terra, right at the entrance of the Harbour, it’s been there taunting me for way too long. In the morning, lay out the twelve coins in front of you on a table and call for sailors. They will come forward. Give them ten titans each for each moon of service, that’s how much I pay. Don’t take any that doesn’t have five years of service, they have to work for that. Tell them you hire by my name; they shall come forward. Just don’t hire in Ragman’s Harbour, hire here. Then all you need is to set sail, and may the Lord of Light shine upon you, Jaerys.”

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” Jon murmured monotonously, “Which will come without supplies on sea.”

“Don’t worry about such details,” the magister grinned, “Send word once you have the ship, send the parchment I give you, signed. In turn I prepare the ship by the morning. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Jon nodded wondering how easy it really was to screw over a magister of the Iron Bank. Or him, because someone was surely being screwed over. “I want a contract, Bessaro.”

“You read and write,” Bessaro raised an eyebrow, “Not a problem my friend.”

He waved his hand, and two slaves rushed to settle in the corner, by the small writing table.

“The parchment about the Terra handed to my friend Jaerys here, too, as payment to the Bank,” Bessaro ordered them. They merely nodded, before they began shushing about the wording, clearly eager to finish fast.

“Now, the Queen,” Bessaro grinned, “Give me some dirt.”

“That would be hard,” Jon chuckled, “She’s not shown any interest in the likes of us. Or anyone else, for that matter. All she did was stumbling around the camp with her little sister and that big lady knight of hers. And the little man, whomever he was. But there were rumours.”

“What rumours?”

“Rumours that she didn’t get on with the Dragon Queen. They are family, they don’t get on, it’s natural probably,” Humfrey took over the conversation. Jon sighed of relief.

“They don’t get on,” the magister repeated.

“No, they don’t,” Humfrey grinned, “I drank once with the Essosi the Dragon Queen brought. The cockless ones, they have funny accents. And views. They said she stormed out of their Queen’s tent a few times. I also heard she is in truth wed to the Imp. Though some say that Targ cousin of hers annulled it. Would be a messy affair, considering she’s wed after the Imp, and that one did exercise his marital rights.”

“I heard stories of that,” the magister nodded. “It is one thing taking a lass from the street like that, but a high-born lady should be treated properly, considering what she brought to her husband…”

Jon stood and walked to the far end of the cabin, pretending to admire the sea instead of interest in the conversation.

“Aye, that man must’ve been a fool,” he could hear Humfrey. “Think about it, if he treated her well, he would be King in the North. Not that there’s much of the North left, but anyways. Like Jaerys said, she’s a fine lass. Looks the part and speaks little.”

“Exactly what a man wants in a woman,” Bessaro nodded, “That is something about Westerosi high-born women. The ones who stay in Westeros, for the ones in Essos, they are not like it at all if you ask me. They’re the worst.”

“Sound like you speak from experience,” Jon turned as he remarked, “Have you been cursed with matrimony Bessaro?”

“Me,” Bessaro laughed, “Oh no, I… I never really acquired the taste. But you’re right, a fine slender woman with silky hair and porcelain skin is a beautiful thing, especially if it doesn’t speak.”

They laughed, Humfrey and Jon somewhat forcibly, but all the heartfelt ease needed was there in Bessaro’s.

“What else,” he asked after he calmed, “You say she has a lady knight? I thought there’s no such thing.”

“There is the one,” Jon remarked, “Or was. I heard Jaime fucking Lannister tamed the beast, if you know what I mean. I heard he went down one knee.”

Bessaro nodded. “I found it interesting, one Lannister on each side… what a fight. Tywin Lannister would’ve found it less interesting.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jon shrugged, “I heard he was an annoying fuck.”

“He certainly was,” Bessaro laughed, “And if you ask me, Westerosi are dumb as sheep, on this side of the Narrow Sea we knew that his mines ran dry years ago. He lived on borrowed time.”

“No way,” Humfrey’s eyes grew wide. Jon laughed, this time from the heart, at Humfrey’s perfectly executed surprise, after all it was Humfrey himself who told him the same.

“Perhaps his children found out once one of them shot him on the privy,” Jon remarked, “He didn’t shit gold. At least that’s the story I know.”

“Back to the Queen,” Bessaro said, “She sounds to be rather… good. Pure. I wonder what made her buy food.”

“That’s easy. They had no food.”

“I wonder if she was counselled to do it,” Bessaro explained, “If she’s a smart one, or another sheep.”

“That, is not something we can tell,” Jon shrugged, “She paid no attention to the likes of us.”

“Didn’t she lead her army,” Bessaro asked.

“The army was led by the Targaryens,” Humfrey answered instead, “In fact, it was led by Jon Targaryen. The Queens were there, true, but the army was led by Jon Targaryen.”

“What can you tell about him,” Bessaro asked, glancing at both, back and forth.

“Rumour has it he’s dead,” Jon answered. “That’s the word on the streets. He sailed with the Golden Company, he escaped that shithole even before we did. I hear he had a dispute with some magister in Pentos, and it got to him.”

“Interesting,” Bessaro nodded, more to himself.

“Sure you know more,” Jon pressed, “You are a magister of the Iron Bank. Surely the bank knows such things.”

“We do, we do,” Bessaro nodded, “We know he is dead. I heard he burned down a house with his dragon in Pentos, but I didn’t connect the dots before you told me. I was wondering why anyone would want that man dead, but perhaps he wronged the wrong people. On this side of the Narrow Sea, he’s a nobody with a fancy name, like countless others.”

“One of the things I like this side of the Narrow Sea,” Jon remarked, “No Lords, no kings. You can be what you want.”

“And you, Jaerys, will be a rich man soon enough, I can tell. I can tell a good venture when I hear it, and I can tell if the man speaking have what it takes. You my friend, you can do it.”

“Well, that is good to hear,” Jon laughed, “For on the way here my friend had to pay for my food. Time for things to change.”

“Sort this nasty business with that captain,” the magister stood, “You know what I mean, you’ve been a soldier long enough to know. Someone has to pay, with whatever they’ve got, always.”

He walked to the slaves, checking on their progress. He seemed annoyed, whispering angry orders about the parchments, pointing at them. Humfrey stood and walked to Jon.

“Where the fuck is Walder,” Jon whispered. “Not sure how much longer I’ll stomach this.”

“The fish pies were good enough.”

“They want to come back up,” Jon swallowed. “The things we said…”

“They’ll never leave this cabin.”

“Shall be ready soon enough,” the magister turned toward them, wide grin on his face.

“Good. I began to wonder if we’ll be able to catch that captain if we linger much longer,” Jon declared. “This is a fine ship, care to show me?”

“Sure,” Bessaro’s eyes lit up, “This is my flagship. I shall sail on the morrow, with the fleet. Another of Tycho’s business ventures, he likes to dream big. But if he succeeds, that’ll help your venture, Jaerys. I wonder how you got that name; it sounds…”

“Valyrian,” Jon shrugged. “I would’ve asked my mother, but I didn’t know her so we shall never know. Has a nice ring to it though.”

“Perhaps she had Blackfyre blood,” Bessaro remarked.

“Every second whore has Blackfyre blood,” Jon laughed.

“True,” Bessaro laughed, as he opened the cabin door, “It’s a funny joke. Did you know that Blackfyre died out on the male line? None of them bears the name.”

“That’s why none of them leads the Golden Company, I presume?”

“If you ask me, it is why a Targaryen could even lead that company,” Bessaro explained, “As long as there was a Blackfyre, surely they would have never settled for a Targ. What was he like?”

“Who,” Jon asked, “The Targ?”

“Yes,” Bessaro nodded, “After all, he amassed that army, and if the tales are true, he defeated the Other in single combat. He must’ve been an outstanding military mind.”

“He used the same battle plan every fucking time,” Jon shrugged, “We didn’t even need to hear it to know. We only needed to know who has which side, for he encircled them, every time. Then he got on his dragon and burned them.”

“That was the battleplan?”

“Every single time.”

“I take back what I said,” Bessaro shrugged, “One good military move doesn’t make a tactician.”

“It worked,” Humfrey added, “Why change something that works.”

“If it worked, my friend,” Bessaro gave Humfrey a dismissive smile, “Then you wouldn’t have marched across half of Westeros before defeating them. That is, of course, if it wasn’t part of the plan. I say that it was. The Targs wanted the Iron Throne, so they brought the dead right to that Capitol and burned it all, dead and the city alike.”

They reached the deck. There wasn’t much to see, the sun was down, stars shone in the sky, their light reflected by the sea. Jon’s eyes searched for the horizon, as they always did. For home. He used to sit on the rocks, searching for the horizon, even though it would’ve shown him only the Dornish shores. The thought of seeing a horizon brought on his yearning for home, but he could never see the horizon. He tried never to think of whether it meant that he’ll never see home again.

He looked up, at the sails all neatly rolled up.

“A fine ship, indeed.”

“I commissioned it for myself,” Bessaro explained, “After all, if I have to sail, at least do it the way I like.”

“You don’t sound overly fond of your sailing mission, Bessaro,” Jon remarked.

“No, I don’t like it in the least,” the magister said lowly, “It’s one of those things. Tycho sets out on a plan, a grand venture, and we follow.”

“You don’t sound overly fond of Tycho Nestoris either,” Humfrey chuckled.

“Oh, I have nothing against Tycho,” Bessaro said swiftly. “He doubled our revenue, something that seemed impossible before his tenure. I just wonder if he’s reaching too high.”

“Surely the bank could withstand the failure of a single venture,” Jon shrugged.

“Of course it could,” Bessaro remarked, “The mines are still full, though our profits took a turn for worse since the Dragon Queen abolished slavery in the south, and it’s spreading thanks to…”

“The fire worshippers,” Jon finished the sentence. “Speak freely, I’m no priest, neither am I sensitive.”

“Well you said it,” Bessaro said lowly, “No need to repeat.”

“Chin up, then, Bessaro,” Jon grinned, “Today’s a good day. We struck a deal, easy for the both of us.”

“One good deal, one less to my liking,” Bessaro said, “That is my tally. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does,” Jon smiled, “Something is bothering you. If you need other assistance… I’ve not had a good fight in a long time, Bessaro. Throw one in, I’ll be happier for it.”

“Unless you mean to fight forty thousand,” Bessaro chuckled, “You are not to be happier for it.”

“Forty thousand?” Humfrey turned toward the magister, eyes wide.

“Or thirty at the least, what does it matter,” Bessaro shrugged it off, “I have to ferry that many soldiers out of Slavers’ Bay. I always thought, better stay away from the companies when assembled. Now they are assembled.”

“There’s no company of forty thousand, Bessaro.”

“Oh no, this isn’t the number of just one,” Bessaro argued, “There are four or five, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Someone must’ve gotten really pissed off by the abolishment of slavery,” Humfrey laughed.

“Oh, there’s a story,” Bessaro began, “Astapor and Yunkai laid Meereen under naval siege. The dragons burned the ships.”

“Well if them companies move against Meereen…” Jon raised an eyebrow, “I’ve seen what them dragons can do, ships or men, doesn’t matter, like you said. Can be forty thousand, can be a dozen, it doesn’t matter.”

“The dragons aren’t in Meereen,” Bessaro explained, “That is why, you see. The dragons, no one knows where they are. Some say they shriek above the Dothraki Sea at times. Some say there’s still Dothraki there, once their children grow up they’ll take their revenge on the world. There are all kinds of stories.”

“A Dragon Queen without Dragons,” Humfrey chuckled, “Actually, is she even there? In Meereen, I mean. Not that she had much left, she didn’t have much of her army left after the last battle. They burned in the city. If I was her, I also would’ve run and hide in that pyramid. Doesn’t need an army to defend.”

“Oh, she is there,” Bessaro remarked, “We have friends who confirmed, she is there. Mind you, she pretends she is not. I say she’s in hiding because she knows. She knows the damage she’s done, and now, no army, no dragons…”

“So Tycho Nestoris chose to restore order,” Jon nodded, deeply in thought. Daenerys was indeed in Meereen, the spies of the Bank confirmed it. Or traitors, depending on which side one stands.

There’s only one fate for traitors. Whoever they are, wherever they are. Jon clenched his fists just as he heard the steps.

 

“Bessaro Rehaan,” they heard the familiar voice, “What do you think you are doing.”

Bessaro turned swiftly, his face full of confusion. Jon also turned. He wanted to laugh.

“Valar Morghulis,” Bessaro murmured.

“Valar Dohaeris,” Jaqen H’Ghar returned the greeting, “I asked you a question.”

“I struck a deal with these fine men,” Bessaro shrugged nervously, “Nothing that concerns you. The Bank has many clients, my friend, we support many ventures. My friends here will take a contract and resolve a not inconsiderable headache for Tycho and myself.”

“I see,” Jaqen nodded, “In Meereen?”

“I hear it’s best to stay clear of Meereen,” Jon laughed. Bessaro shot him an angry look.

“And why is that,” Jaqen H’Ghar asked.

“My friends have no intention to go to Meereen, Jaqen,” Bessaro Rehaan tried to explain, clearly fearful as he took a step back, now leaning against the side of the ship. “Their venture takes them to Westeros. A little business, one venture boosting the other.”

“I’m not entirely sure that the Lady would agree,” Jaqen remarked.

“Does she have to know,” Bessaro asked, “Surely, her success is all but granted. Ours is but a small venture, Tycho will be pleased with it, I am sure. Westeros need trade, like everyone else, after all.”

“Last I heard they had nothing to trade with,” Jaqen remarked, “Nothing but their fighting men. Unless your fine friends trade in Queens, I don’t see what else is there.”

“Coin is still there,” Bessaro explained, “In the South, and these fine men fought in that war. They know. They gave me some insight, too. Tycho will be very pleased, indeed.”

“Perhaps he would be,” Jaqen remarked as he stepped in front of the magister. “We shall never know.”

It was quick. The dagger pierced the fine silks and linens, skin and layers of fat, before it launched into the chest cavity, piercing a lung. The result was immediate, the magister struggling to breathe.

Arya pulled off the face of Jaqen H’Ghar.

“I am Arya Stark, I want you to know that before you die,” she said. “He knew it too,” she added, glancing down the face in her hand. “He knew that Jon Targaryen is the one taking his head.”

Jon stepped away from the magister, struggling to stay on his feet, holding on to the wooden rail behind him. He drew his sword.

“Aye, he knew,” he said, as he turned back toward the magister. His moon-face was full of sheer dread, struggle for life. “I said, whoever they are, wherever they are, all traitors get the same fate. You are wrong, magister. My fancy name means more than you could ever begin to understand, on either side of the Narrow Sea. You’re a traitor, magister, and a despicable being who would’ve sold dozens of Westerosi into slavery. You would sail these ships to the Bay of Dragons to ferry forty thousand out, once they dealt with my kin in Meereen. Where would you ferry them?”

The magister glanced around them, one by one. He was clearly looking for words, his dying mind wondering what to do. Soon, he will beg, Jon knew.

“You ought to hurry,” Humfrey told Jon then, “Those slaves will come looking for us once they finished.”

“Hear that, magister,” Jon scoffed, “Better make up your mind swiftly. Answer me or give me your head.”

“If I answer you, will you spare me,” Bessaro uttered the words. Blood began to flow from his mouth, in a thin line. He didn’t seem to notice; he didn’t wipe it away. His hands held firmly the wood plank behind him.

“I shall think about it,” Jon shrugged, “Depending on what you tell me. Who’s the woman, what’s her name. What is her father’s name? What is their business in the Bay of Dragons? Where would you ferry them after?”

“You don’t know anything,” the magister remarked, “Gods, you are just hunting for one to tell.”

“I know of Darkstar,” Jon remarked, “But if you don’t want to talk, we can swiftly end our conversation. It became tedious a long while ago, magister, I don’t mind ending it in the least.” He raised his sword.

“No, wait!” The magister raised his hands in protection of himself, and with it, fell on his knees, unable to stand without support. “I don’t know their name! No one does, so no one can betray them. I know Illirio Mopatis works with them. And the Dornish, I know his name.”

“Gerold Dayne,” Arya scoffed, “Nothing new.”

“They will move on Meereen, like we discussed,” the magister said, “They will negotiate, but they will move on Meereen if that fails. You said so yourself, there are almost nothing left of the armies there. No dragons, they will take Meereen and restore it, hand it to Astapor in a deal. Astapor owes the Bank, it shall repay in profits. Like you and your ship.”

“I won’t kill the captain, magister,” Jon said, “I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take your funny coins, and I’ll hand them to him. I’m sure that you have a full purse too, that belongs to him, too. Payment for the good deed of saving the lives of my people. He can sail then, bail out his ship and ferry my people back home. That’s how I’ll resolve his debt to the Bank, magister.”

“Then you intend to have them sail back to war,” the magister hissed, “That is, either war or submission. Their fighting men are at Slaver’s Bay, that precious Queen surrounded by our men eager to take payment if the Wolves turn.”

“So that is why Tycho Nestoris sailed to Westeros,” Humfrey remarked.

“So that is where you would ferry the companies in the Bay,” Jon declared to the magister.

“That is all I know!” the magister cried out, “I know nothing more, it isn’t my venture. All I know, the Lord wants the Iron Throne for himself. Illirio Mopatis had a way before, to bind the Dragon Queen in matrimony, but that failed, and I don’t know more of their plot. This is all I know! I told you all, now help me. Let us part and forget this.”

“That fat head of yours seem to be very precious to you,” Jon laughed a mad laugh. “I tell you, magister, I probably never met a bigger coward than you. You can keep your head.”

“Really?”

“Jon,” he heard Arya beginning to protest as he watched the magister trying to get on his feet. Trying and failing.

“I need help,” Bessaro cried out, “Help me up, help me back to the cabin now, I pay you.”

“True, you need help,” Jon said calmly, just as calmly as before any storm his fury unleashed. He nodded to Humfrey.

“Let me help you, magister,” Humfrey stepped to the man and crouched down. But instead of helping up the man, he tied his legs and wrists.

“What are you doing? I told you everything!”

“Aye you did,” Jon’s response was cold as ice, “You told me that you betrayed me and my kin. That you would’ve aided those who threatened us. That, Bessaro Rehaan, is treason in my eyes. There’s only one punishment for treason.”

“But you said I can keep my head,” Bessaro began to cry.

“And you shall,” Jon nodded. From the corner of his eye, he could see Humfrey working, as if reading his thoughts. He finished and stood. Jon sheathed his sword.

“Come now, Bessaro,” Jon pulled up the man by the rope on his wrists, “You, my friend, are going for a little swim.“

“I cannot swim,” Bessaro whimpered, splitting blood while he did. He only had minutes anyway, Jon knew. Even if they tried to save him, he was beyond saving, Arya’s dagger already sealed the man’s fate.

“That doesn’t matter, even if you could swim,” Jon shrugged. “How in Seven Hells can you live in this city and not learn to swim?” Jon laughed, albeit the answer was clearly standing in front of his eyes in all its glory.

“Thank you for this conversation, magister. You’ve been most helpful.”

He tossed the man overboard. Humfrey tossed after him a large, heavy canvas sack, not dissimilar to a grain sack, on the other end of the rope tied to his legs.

“Step aside,” Jon heard Arya behind him as he watched still where the body disappear. There was no scream. Of course there wasn’t – the man had no lung to scream. He stepped aside. Arya emptied a bucket of water where the man stood, washing the blood away on the deck.

“We better leave,” Humfrey said solemnly.

 

“I wonder what it was worth,” Jon said as soon as his feet reached the planks of the pier. Looking up, he watched Jumfrey climbing down. This wasn’t the way they took when boarding, the fat magister could’ve never climbed it. They were lifted up, pulled by slaves, Jon reminded himself bitterly.

“What do you mean,” Arya asked, just as Humfrey reached them.

“Tomorrow, another will take his place, most likely,” Jon sighed, “Sail these fucking ships against Dany.”

“Technically, they weren’t to sail against her,” Humfrey corrected, “They were for after she’s been dealt with.”

“The fuck took you so long, Arya,” Jon scoffed.

“You shall see soon enough,” Arya smirked, “Just run, off the pier.”

Jon did as he was told, silently cursing himself. Perhaps he should’ve cut the man’s throat. Despicable as the magister was, he dies drowning. And does it really matter? Drowning in water or drowning in his own blood, it’s little difference. He was a dead man already. He and his cronies didn’t try to give Jon a clean and swift death either. No, he shook his head as he ran, brushing aside the thoughts of shame, of regret. If he wanted to end this, he had no time for such luxuries as being generous with his mercy. Traitors deserved none of his mercy.

They turned as they reached the paved street, the end of the pier. The stalls were all closed now, with the cold night no merchant opted to freeze in the dark, when there’s a festival in the city. They could hear the sounds of it. The pier was deserted.

“Where is Arya,’ Jon asked annoyed.

Just then, it happened. A ship blew up, followed by another, and another. One by one, ships blew on both sides. The fleet of the Iron Bank. Gone, just like that. They instinctively stepped back, and into the darkness of a small corridor between two buildings.

Pieces of wood, canvas, and every kind of material found on ships flew in every direction. Slaves ran screaming, climbing off the exploding ships, running down the pier. Soon they hid the sight of the pier, as they began to group in front of Jon and Humfrey hiding in the dark, all of them watching the entertainment in shock as the fires reached higher and higher. Soon they’ll be seen in the city.

Just then, a bell began to ring, followed by another. The noise of celebration quickly faded into the noise of screams behind them. The city was on its way here, Jon knew.

“See,” Arya stood in front of them, “These ships shall sail nowhere in the near future.”

“You blew up the ships, with slaves on them,” Jon said bitterly.

“It’s not like I could evacuate first,” Arya shrugged, “I blew the masts. They have time to evacuate. We have to go now. The whole city will be here soon.”

True. Arya began to lead them, through narrow corridors, across streets, and more narrow corridors.

“Where are we going,” she asked.

“Back to the inn,” Jon ordered. She glanced back at him with surprised eyes.

“I meant it, Arya,” he said bitterly, holding up a pouch in his hand, “I mean to reward that fucking captain. Just hope you didn’t blow his ship.”

“I blew all the ships, Jon,” she remarked.

“Well, that is that, then,” Jon sighed, “Still, I shall pay the man. For now.”

“For now,” Arya repeated, questioning.

“Yes, for now. Once I’m finished, I’ll return for our people. For the woman and my tapestries. I’ll take them all home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doubling up ahead of Xmas. Merry Xmas everyone! (In case I'll have no chance to wish you Merry Xmas before Xmas...)
> 
> had a little break, hope nobody minds ;) Made up my mind about some aspects of the story - sticking to original ideas, for now at the least. And killing off every character I can that I hated in the series hahah  
> 


	94. Epilogue - Braavos V.

“I should’ve known about this.”

Sansa let out a sigh.

“There was no time, Lord Hand,” Baelor explained, “The less you knew, the better.”

“And you are sure…” Tyrion turned toward Lord Reed, “Gods, why do I even ask. You have your ravens, of course you are sure.” He climbed off his chair, walking to the window. Taking in the sight of the camp, a very different camp than a moon ago. There was laughter. There was life.

“It’s not like I could call a council meeting,” Sansa scoffed.

“Why is that,” Tyrion turned in anger, “That, is how we deal with matters concerning the camp! Those were our orders; we have a way to govern. That is as good as law, and as much as I respect you, Your Grace, you have no right to do otherwise, neither does Lord Hightower, definitely not Lord Reed.”

“Because,” Sansa sighed once more, “Redwyne was up to something. I call a meeting, explain my plan, deal with your protests and his protests, then what do you think would’ve happened next?”

“He would’ve run to find this… Dimmitis,” Lord Reed finished her theory.

Tyrion nodded. It was true, he knew. “He would’ve warned him, and you’d be prisoner. Perhaps all of us would be.”

“With twenty men, doubtful,” Baelor remarked, “Not against my ten thousand, even if Redwyne turned. But I would bet on it that not all of us would have skin on our faces by now.”

That was true, as well, Tyrion noted to himself bitterly. A Faceless Man has been unleashed in the camp. Because he advised to deal with the Iron Bank, he invited this on them. He wanted to bang his head into a wall.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” He said lowly as he climbed back on his chair, his eyes on Sansa. “You told me you don’t like it. Gods, Your Grace. I’m a miserable Hand.”

“You’re not my Hand, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa remarked, “And your job is to keep the people alive, fed and clothed. It’s Lord Baelor’s job to keep the peace, he’s got the force to do so.”

True, again. Though Jaime was the master of war. Tyrion’s eyes settled on Jaime, sitting in the corner, right next to Brienne of Tarth.

“Are we at war,” Jaime asked.

“We are at something,” Lord Reed answered, “War, perhaps. A game, definitely. There’s no Iron Throne, but if I am right, someone still covets the damn thing.”

“How can you say that from this,” Tyrion asked, “We’ve had a deal with the bank, they tried to… whatever they tried to accomplish here. Imprison the Queen, I presume.”

“Let’s sum up what we know,” Lord Reed stood with the aid of his stick. Jaime stood as well, stepping forward, he put his one hand on Reed’s shoulder.

“We can sum up while sitting, Howland.”

Reed sat back, while all of them moved their chairs to the table.

“The Wolves have been sent to fulfil a contract, and the Bank intended to leave behind a Faceless Man. He took the face of a northerner, so it’s safe to assume that the target was the Queen. We know that also from Lord Baelor and Lady Desmera’s findings, the Essosi had a certain… interest in the Queen. From all this, it’s just as safe to assume that the contract is not to Edric’s liking, the Bank expects him to break contract.”

“That can be only one thing,” Tyrion remarked, “Well, two things. Three, perhaps.”

“Do tell, Lord Hand,” Sansa nodded.

“There aren’t many contracts that I presume the Wolves wouldn’t take to lightly,” Tyrion began to explain, “The first one, the least meaningful to us, if the contract is against Norvos. The Wolves lived in the Hills of Norvos for at least a century, have they not? They can be expected to harbour tender feelings toward their former hosts there, so a move against Norvos would not be to their liking.”

“We have bigger problems with the other two,” Tyrion continued. “One, if the Wolves are to fight the Golden Company.”

“The numbers don’t add up there,” Jaime interrupted, “The company is double the size of Edric’s force. They won’t be used against the Company.”

“There are other companies is Essos,” Tyrion countered, “If anyone wants to fight the Company in any conflict, they ought to realise the same and hire adequate force, no? I say, it’s a possibility. The Wolves boosting numbers against the Company, but that fight would also not be to their liking, fighting against Jon and Griff there.”

“Edric would never…” Sansa whispered.

“He would, Your Grace,” Tyrion interrupted, “If it is a choice between the life of his Queen, and through that, the independence of the North, or the life of Jon and Griff… It’s a tough choice but he would make it. It’s risky, the Faceless could’ve been a deterrent. A push, the Bank only need to advise Edric of Tycho Nestoris’ little journey to Maidenpool to nudge him in the right direction. But there’s a third option.”

“Daenerys,” Sansa remarked.

“Yes,” Tyrion nodded, “My Queen is somewhere in Essos we presume, most likely in Meereen, with a small force of Unsullied and two dragons. Anyone moving against her needs a large force. She’s abolished slavery, she must’ve upset a great many clients of the Bank, I would assume that profits aren’t near where they were before her ‘changes’ either. The Bank could even have a stake in removing her. But I doubt that Lord Edric would take that lightly, Daenerys is Jon’s kin. Lord Edric swore fealty to Jon.”

“So did we all,” Jaime remarked.

“No, he swore fealty to Jon’s person,” Tyrion corrected, “Remember the crossing at Winterfell? He went down on his knees, and loudly proclaimed his fealty to Jon’s person. He swore the Wolves to him, before he swore them to his Queen. That is a bit of a conundrum if he’s to fight Daenerys, I’d say.”

“What do we do now?” Baelor asked.

“Nothing,” Tyrion answered, “Nothing overly visible. Sometimes nothing is the best thing to do. For the time being, the Bank will assume they have access to the Queen. We have this Dimittis fella; he may prove useful down the line. I say we do nothing.”

“We are vulnerable here,” Sansa remarked.

“I agree,” Jaime nodded, “They had a force, small as it was but they roamed the hills, studied the bay for days. They had plenty of time to learn our weaknesses for a possible attack.”

“There isn’t much to do about that now,” Tyrion argued, “We were ordered to establish this camp. Perhaps we ought to double the guards.”

“We ought to do more,” Jaime countered, “We ought to send out search parties, set up our sentinels. Dig ditches, prepare planks, expand our perimeters. Raise a second fence around the camp and close down the gates not necessary.”

“You’d limit access to the camp, and turn it into a military encampment,” Lord Reed remarked bitterly, “Nothing would be more telling. Those gates are used by our hunters, Ser Jaime. Lord Jaime.”

Jaime smiled, “I am just as happy with the Ser, Howland. Or Jaime, for that matter, seeing that I took to calling you by your given name.”

“We all ought to drop the courtesies,” Sansa remarked, “We are in this together.”

“We are, those in this room,” Baelor added sternly, “But not Redwyne.”

“What do we do about that?” Brienne asked.

“Again, we ought to do nothing,” Tyrion smirked. “Let Redwyne believe that he has something in motion, if he even achieved that. If I was this Nestoris fella, I would thread carefully there. An over-eager Redwyne could thwart any plan by accidentally telling.”

“He may have complained,” Lord Reed remarked, “But I agree with the Hand in this. He was part of a screw-up not long ago, it’s clear that he’s threading on thin ice. Only a fool would ally themselves with Redwyne now. Promises may have been made, of support or something similar, but nothing certain.”

“I’ll have Desmera dine with her father tonight,” Baelor thought aloud, “It’s been awhile since she spent time with her kin.”

“I doubt that her father will chatter about such matters in the hall,” Tyrion remarked.

“You underestimate my wife, Lord Hand,” Baelor shrugged, “She’ll find a way to have a proper conversation with him. She’ll remind him who she is to him.”

*****

 

Jon stared into his cup, lengthily.

“I warn you, you are brooding again,” he heard Arya’s voice. He looked up angrily, but her face was void of any scorn. “You can’t change the world, Jon.”

“I can try,” Jon shrugged, just as Humfrey dumped himself back on the bench, right next to Arya. “I still don’t like killing, Arya.”

“Seems to me, we better get used to it,” Humfrey remarked, “There’s a war coming. Lots will die.”

“That is what bothers me,” Jon sighed. “We fought a war to save our peoples, we united the peoples, so they stop killing each other, now some bitch and her father want to take what is ours, what is theirs. They aren’t ready for this; I am sure of that.”

“The magister said that Nestoris is in that camp,” Humfrey remarked, “For all we know, they may have taken over control of the camp.”

“We can’t save them if we don’t stop this, Jon,” Arya argued, shooting an angry glance at Humfrey.

“Don’t you think I know that,” Jon hissed.

A man stopped by their table. Jon looked him up, he had neat clothing, albeit not expensive, he was clean.

“What do you want,” Arya scoffed at the man.

“You,” the man looked toward Humfrey, “You’re a Westerosi, anyone could tell.”

“I am, so what,” Humfrey shrugged, “Seems to be of everyone's interest today. Why do you care?”

“Why are you here,” the man asked, his eyes clearly fearful.

“There was a war, have you not heard,” Humfrey said sternly, “There’s nothing more for me back home. That is why I am here. We do what we must do to survive, Braavosi.”

“You a soldier?”

Humfrey nodded.

“That’s good,” the man said, “I wondered if I could hire you. I have a job.”

“What is the job,” Humfrey asked.

“That I cannot tell here,” the man said, “I may be the owner of this inn, but I know full well what it is like. You come to my room; I tell you.”

“I come to your room and I may be cut down there, no witnesses,” Humfrey shrugged, “No, thanks.”

“There’s only one man there,” the man said, his voice growing desperate, “Please. He’s my brother. He’s no soldier, he’s a sailor. He’s got the job.”

Humfrey opened his mouth to speak, but Jon stood. “Your brother has a ship docked in Purple Harbour, the Terra,” he said. Humfrey and Arya’s eyes grew wide, before Arya burst out laughing.

“Why, he does,” the man said, “He did. The Purple Harbour is burning, that is why there aren’t many here tonight.” He turned to Humfrey, “Will you come?”

Humfrey stood as well, “Me, and my friends here. Lead the way.”

*****

 

They entered the tiny solar, where a man stood in the corner. He was broken, anyone could tell from a single glance. He was shaking from the nerves, bone thin, back bent, shoulders dropped. This was a man in fear.

“You are the captain of the Terra,” Humfrey remarked as the door closed behind them. Arya took to search the room immediately.

The man stood, more fear overtaking his face if that was even possible.

“Calm down, captain,” Jon said softly, “We are not here to kill you. Albeit, we were hired today to kill you, and your brother’s approach couldn’t have been dumber.”

“You were hired to kill me,” the man whispered, “And take the Terra.”

“Aye, we were.”

“And you say you are not here to kill me,” the man raised a small knife.

“Put that down, stupid man,” Jon laughed, “The Purple Harbour is burning. The Terra is burning with it, captain. You’re in need of a new ship.”

“You know this, how?”

“I said, we were hired today to kill you,” Jon remarked, “We decided otherwise. We don’t kill captains who save lives, captain. That’s not how I repay good deeds.” He tossed the purse toward the man and began searching his pocket.

The man caught the purse, dropping the knife.

“You were at Lannisport,” Humfrey said.

“I was there,” the man nodded, as he emptied the purse on a table. Then he gasped, so did his brother.

“This is your payment for your cargo from Lannisport,” Jon declared.

The man dumped himself in a chair by that table, as tears began to flow on his face. A broken man he was, indeed, now sobbing loudly.

“Calm down now, captain,” Jon said softly, “What’s your name.”

“Maerreo,” the captain whimpered, wiping his tears away, “That is my brother, Maerrapho. He owns this inn, gave me safe place to stay, else I’d be on the streets begging, or in the canals with my throat slit, most likely.”

“There’s no safety anywhere, Maerreo,” Arya declared, “Not unless we make it.”

“What happened at Lannisport,” Jon asked.

“They came,” Maerreo looked up, “They had bright blue eyes and they were killing, anyone they got to, they were killing without a moment of thought. And those they killed… they rose up, same blue eyes, and those began killing, too. We were just finishing the loading-up, we cut ourselves loose. We were only one of those who could. We sailed out to sea.”

“The port began to burn, and I saw the castle, the castle burned, towers falling on Lannisport below,” the captain’s tears began to roll once more, “And the screams. Those were the worst, the screams… I hear it in my sleep, every night. The screams of men and women, and children! They were killing the children!!”

Jon swallowed hard.

“Then we caught sight of the first dinghy. We looked in their eyes, but they had human eyes. They were begging. What was I supposed to do?! Turn them away? They would’ve died there, all of them, women and children… more dinghies came, we had no space. I chose to drop the cargo into the sea. Take onboard as many as we found.”

“How many,” Jon asked.

“At least a dozen dinghies,” the captain said, “Toward the end, the dinghies weren’t full anymore. The last one had but two men and a little girl in them, and an old woman clutching to some fucking tapestry. Who in seven hells saves a tapestry when escaping from death?”

“Those who know they may never see home again,” Humfrey said lowly, his eyes on Jon. The old woman with her tapestries.

“How many,” Jon asked again. He needed to know, he felt.

“About a hundred,” the captain said, “I stayed as long as I could, as long as the sailors were willing and there were dinghies in sight. Then no more dinghies came. All we could see was… blue lights. Lining the pier, their blue eyes, I’ve no doubt. They knew. They knew we saved them. I had to get us away from there, else they come after us.”

“They don’t swim,” Arya remarked.

“I didn’t know that,” the captain looked up at her. “I didn’t know what it was. There was talk, sure, in the pier the day before there were rumours, there is a war, they said, an army of dead men fighting. I didn’t believe it, no one did. They were laughing, and then they were all dead. All but the ones we saved.”

“Any other ships taking them on,” Jon asked then.

The captain chuckled, “Only I was naïve enough to believe that I can get away with it. That it’ll be understood here. No, Volantene, the ships sailed. Only the Terra ferried refugees into harbour here.”

Jon swallowed again. A hundred, only a hundred.

“Jaime Lannister will be grateful for your service,” he whispered.

“Fucking Lannisters,” the captain hissed, “They didn’t protect their own folk.”

“Jaime Lannister fought that dead army you heard about,” Jon declared, “He didn’t have his forces at Casterly Rock because he had them fighting the dead.”

“Then how come the fucking dead reached Lannisport,” the captain asked, “Fucking Lannisters, don’t they have the best army.”

“Not anymore,” Humfrey raised an eyebrow cynically.

“Not anymore,” the captain repeated.

“We have a job for you, Westerosi,” his brother, Maerrapho spoke up then, “We must appeal to your love for your country.”

“Your cargo was bought on a loan by the Bank,” Humfrey said, “You couldn’t repay them. They stranded your ship, further increasing your debt in the harbour, along with the late interests growing… We already know the story.”

“Then you know that Maerreo needs protection,” Maerrapho spoke, “He needs a way out of this city. We tried to pay instalments, what little the inn brings and Maerreo took up some jobs in Ragman’s Harbour, but the Bank want the full sum. That fucking Bessaro Rehaan, that fat pig, he said Tycho Nestoris has no more patience. Maerreo pays, one way or another.”

“You don’t have to worry about Bessaro Rehaan anymore,” Humfrey grinned, “He took a little trip of his own.”

“You say you want protection,” Jon said, “A way out of this city. I have a job for you, Maerreo, and I will appeal to the same kindness that made you stay back at Lannisport and save those people.”

“Maerreo, don’t take this,” Maerrapho spoke up, “Wasn’t one enough?”

But Maerreo stood, “You gave me a bag of coin. You know what, I stand by what I’ve done. I am listening.”

“Good,” Jon smiled, “For there are more people to save, much more. There’s a Queen to save, Maerreo, and I will rely on you to do the job. I want you to take my friends to Maidenpool.”

“I won’t…” Arya stepped closer, but Jon raised his hand to silence her.

“The survivors camp at Maidenpool,” Jon explained to Maerreo, “They are in grave danger, my friends will warn and prepare them. But they need to sail on the morrow. Take the coin, buy a ship at Ragman’s Harbour, with trade reduced there are many stranded, you can bail one out. These…” he’s put the large iron coins on the table, glancing at Arya, “give these to the sailors, ten titans for a month… Gods, you know better than me how to hire and pay sailors. Tell them, you hire for Bessaro Rehaan’s venture, trade to Westeros, immediate start, all must be ready to sail. Take your brother and whatever family you have left, whatever you have left, and sail for Maidenpool.”

“You cannot mean this,” Maerrapho stepped in, “All we have left is this inn! We cannot leave it.”

“Someone always pays,” Jon turned toward the inn-keeper, “Who do you think that will be, once the Bank realises that your brother’s gone? You’ve not thought this through, have you. Take your family, anything you can carry, prepare for a harsh winter and sail tomorrow at first light. Go downstairs, take the fucking coins, get them fucking sailors. There must be some in the inn tonight, drinking themselves full in their misery with their ships burning in Purple Harbour many lost their jobs tonight. Do it, now.”

Maerrapho swallowed, his face sour like a lemon, but he grabbed the coins and left.

“What about the Citadel,” Arya asked angrily, “If you have us sail to Maidenpool, how in the Seven Hells will we stop them in the Citadel.”

“I don’t give two shits about some eggs, Arya,” Jon scoffed, “Sansa is in danger! You go, and you find whomever threatens her, and you kill them all. You heard me?!”

“I did,” Arya shrugged, “But think about it, they take them eggs, they find a way and whatever you’ve done now will be undone in a few years with twenty full grown dragons burning the whole of Westeros.”

Jon swallowed his fury.

“You sail to Maidenpool,” he declared, “You find whomever is there, Nestoris or whomever else, and deal with it. Then you can go to the Citadel. It’s not like they’ll receive their orders without you.”

“That bitch may just as well send those orders some other way,” Arya argued.

“I take that risk,” Jon countered, “You made your point, I’ll find them fucking eggs when we dealt with this, if you’re late. But you sail to Maidenpool Arya, that is my order.”

“You can’t order me,” Arya declared, “You don’t rule over me, I am a Northerner.”

“You sailed with the Golden Company,” Jon turned toward her, “I am the leader of the Golden Company, you are in my service. This, is what I order.”

“By the Gods,” Maerreo stood, his wide eyes fixed on Jon.

“I would’ve kept this to myself if I were you,” Humfrey remarked cynically.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jon shrugged, his eyes meeting Maerreo’s. “Captain, you have a choice, that is true. Do as I bid you or betray me and I’ll hunt you down to the end of the world, you and all of yours. You can run from the Bank and I can aid you, but I swear, you cannot run from me, you cannot undo a betrayal against me. Bessaro Rehaan tried. His body is under Purple Harbor in the sea.”

“I wouldn’t,” the captain uttered the words, “I mean… they were your people. I saved your people. You pay me to save mine. I will sail to Maidenpool. Your Grace. I can sail your people back home if you wish, it is the least I can do for what you’ve done for me and mine, you freed us from the Bank, I can see that. Your people are but homeless beggars here, that is not what I hoped for them to find here. I am… I am sorry for how my city treated them.”

“Good,” Jon hissed, “But there’s no time to find them now. It’ll have to wait.”

“I know how,” Maerreo said, “They come by, drop by things at the inn, gifts. One of them made this kaftan I wear; another gifted that tapestry on the wall there. We know where to find them, and those know where to find the rest. We can get the word out, it’ll spread. They’ll be at the harbour in the morning.”

Jon looked at Maerreo, then Humfrey, Arya.

“It is not the right time,” Humfrey said, “We’d sail them to war, possibly.”

“Better than homeless begging, or servitude,” Jon countered, “They are not safe here, the Bank will move soon enough. Bessaro Rehaan isn’t irreplaceable I am sure of it. Once they’re in Maidenpool, your brother has the force to protect them. And we know where to find one of them.”

“The old woman selling tapestries,” Humfrey nodded, “That is why she took to you so kindly. The old lass is a smart lass.”

Jon nodded. “Humfrey, stay here. Maerreo does need protection tonight, in case anyone would think him being part of the mess at the harbour. He can’t leave, but we can. We can get the word out.”

“I suppose it’s futile for me to speak up,” Arya shrugged.

“It is,” Jon declared. “Come on, we have work to do.”

*****

 

“Speak up.”

Walder glanced back at Jon, then shrugged. “There’s nothing to say.”

“You disagree,” Jon remarked, “And you’ve been awfully silent ever since we left the inn. Fucking say it, Walder.”

“I told you, there is nothing to say,” Walder shrugged once more, “You trust too easily.”

“We need to trust someone,” Jon said in desperation, “We saved the man’s life, his family. That ought to count for something.”

“Until a better offer comes along.”

“They’ve been at port for what, six moons? Seven?” Jon argued, “They spent that time harassed by the Bank, fearing for their lives. It matters, Arya. They know who their enemy is.”

“So do we, if I may add,” Walder remarked.

“So do we,” Jon sighed. “You still disapprove.”

Walder stopped and turned back toward him.

“I don’t disapprove, Jon. Sansa is my sister, the only Stark besides me. I would never ever let anyone raise a finger to her again. It’s a hard choice, I am glad it’s not me who had to make it.”

“But you argued.”

“Of course I argued,” Walder smirked, “You ought to know the price of it. You need to see that clearly. What will you do about it?”

“I’ll stop it,” Jon declared, “I’ll stop it in Meereen.”

“There are thousand leagues between you and Meereen,” Walder remarked, “You’ll never get there in time. Unless…” He tilted his head slightly sideways, a grin forming on his face.

“Aye, don’t forget who I am,” Jon returned the grin, “I’ll get there.”

“Unless you can’t call it back,” Walder remarked, “It wouldn’t be the first time. If it’s… out of range. I don’t know how it works.”

“Out of range,” Jon laughed, “Like an arrow. Rhaegal’s near, I can feel it.”

“Good,” Walder turned and resumed the hasty walk through the dark corridors and empty streets. “I’d hate to lose you to thirst and starvation on the road. In any case, you need to get out of the city. Once we are done here, we shall see to that as well.”

Jon sighed, “We shall.”

They stopped, Walder banging on the wooden door.

“Are you trying to wake the whole fucking street,” Jon hissed. But the door opened. The old woman measured them up.

“It’s not ready,” she said.

“No, it’s not,” Jon pushed through the door, Walder behind him, closing it.

“Listen to me carefully, Westerosi,” Jon began, “We have no time to waste. Pack your things, get the word out to all those who came on the Terra. There’ll be a ship sailing from Ragnar’s Harbor at first light, back to Maidenpool. There’s a camp there, you’ll be safe there. You’re not safe here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere,” the woman remarked.

“No, it’s not really,” Jon said, “But there are forces in motion, and I will not have you and another hundred souls caught here. Get the word out, do you know where they are?”

“Who are you,” the woman asked.

“That doesn’t matter,” Walder interrupted.

“It does matter,” the woman said, “Black dragon, green dragon… you are no Volantene. You are the Prince, I know it.”

“Then you know what you must do, where are they?”

“Twenty of them sleeping upstairs,” the woman said, “It’s not allowed, but we ought to stick together. We have no one left, we can only pay for this lodge together.”

Jon nodded, “Wake them when I left, you ought to find the rest, too, before the sun rises.”

“Not a problem,” the woman declared, “I said so, we stick together. This is not our land, not our home. You say we go home. What’s there for us?”

“Your home with all those who survived,” Jon explained, “They built a camp at Maidenpool, they have supplies. You won’t starve or freeze on these streets. But we have no time for this, if you want to go, you must be at the pier, Ragnar’s Harbor, at first light. The same captain who sailed you here will take you home.”

“Maerreo,” the woman sighed, “He’s a good man. He saved us and he’s had only troubles for it.” Then she nodded. “I do as you say.”

“See that you do,” Jon declared, “The ship won’t wait for stragglers, you must understand that. Anyone not there at first light will be left behind.”

The woman nodded. Walder opened the door, but as Jon turned, the woman caught his hand.

“I wish you good fortune,” she whispered, “Your grace. You’ll need it.”

Jon only nodded; and left her. As they looked back, they could see the light in the upper window. Jon allowed himself a smile.

*****

 

He sat on a rock, watching Arya. She didn’t allow him to help. She had him sit by and watch, urging him to eat. How she’s got the food, or even the horse, Jon couldn’t tell, but it was irrelevant. He watched her, studied her.

Many years ago, when she was even shorter, little more than a child, how her eyes lit up and her lips turned into that wide smile he loved, when she first saw Needle. How she’s changed. They all changed.

“I made the right decision, I know it,” he said then. She looked at him, merely nodding before she returned to her task of preparing the horse.

“Do you think of how different it could’ve been,” Jon asked then. “How many times I could’ve made different decisions, I thought about it a lot these past days.”

“You want the truth?”

Jon nodded.

“I was never a lady,” she began, “I hated the notion of it. I wanted to be like Brienne of Tarth. But no woman could be accepted like that, even not Brienne of Tarth.”

“She wed Ser Jaime,” Jon grinned, “And I am definitely certain that Ser Jaime accepts her.”

Arya sighed. “She was lucky at that, I suppose. That doesn’t matter. You wanted to be a Stark, and you would’ve never been accepted, Jon. King in the North, of course, they all hailed you, because they needed you. I can see that now. But you are no Stark, not like that. I mean, you share our blood, you’ll always be my brother, but in the eyes of the world, you are a Targaryen. You are something else, and I am something else. We are what we are, we can lament that we aren’t what we wanted to be, but there is no point. Waste of time that is. We can embrace who we are, do what we can.”

“You almost sound wise,” Jon smiled.

“Some wisdom sticks no matter how I fight it,” she returned the smile, “I can’t stop growing up.”

“No, you can’t.”

“And you can’t stop being the Prince promised.”

Jon sighed at that, as Arya stepped to him. “I know it is hard, I know you blame yourself. You were always so… steadfast and dutiful and eager to please everyone. It comes with being raised a bastard I suppose, pleasing everyone. You can’t please everyone, Jon, you cannot save them all. You have to save yourself, too, else those you saved have nothing.”

“I didn’t please them all, Arya,” Jon whispered, “I saved a lot, and I… I hurt those who loved me in the process. Howland Reed is one example. I often think of how he must’ve felt when he woke and learned that I left them. He spent half his life preparing to aid me, and he was loyal. And Dany, Dany loved me, in her own way, and I couldn’t love her back. It’s funny, she said the same words to me about Jorah Mormont. She lost Jorah Mormont because he was trying to save me. She lost everything, because she trusted me. And Sansa, I don’t even go there…”

“She loves you,” Arya whispered.

“She did,” Jon wiped his eye from the tear that broke free. “I doubt she still does. I doubt there’s anything left in me that she’d find worthy to love. She told me, in the Godswood in Winterfell, she’ll never leave me behind, and she never did. She took everything, all my missteps and my lies, and she never faltered. I did. I left her behind after she lost everything, too.”

Arya nodded. “She didn’t lose everything, Jon, neither did Daenerys. They have you. Trying to save them as you always do.”

“And what good is saving them if I keep hurting them?”

Arya chuckled, “One day, you’ll have to make a choice.”

“Ahhh,” Jon stood and walked to the horse, leaving her standing where he sat.

“What is it?”

“Dany told me the same words once,” Jon said.

“And?”

“I’m not good at making choices,” Jon sighed. “I’m better at waiting until they make themselves.”

“That’s one way of doing it,” she said, as she motioned for them to walk. They began the long walk through the catacombs, the same walk she took with Ser Davos about a moon before. It wasn’t lost on her.

“I doubt it’s the right way of doing it,” Jon smirked.

“I couldn’t tell,” Arya shrugged, “I do the same.”

“Pray you do tell,” Jon grinned, “Let me brood over someone else’s problems for once.”

“It’s nothing really,” she whispered, “Something Humfrey told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said I like to point out how useless he is. He said he can see behind it.”

Jon stopped for a moment, as the realisation hit him. Then he resumed the walk. He wasn’t willing to say it aloud. It wasn’t his to declare.

“That is why you referred to the Lady Brienne,” he remarked instead.

“What do you mean?”

“She became a warrior, a knight, like you always wanted to be,” Jon smiled, “A formidable one at that, men fear her. And still, she became a lady. The Lady of Casterly Rock by the side of a man who loves her for who she is. Don’t expect her to smile silently in elaborate dresses if she doesn’t want to, or sit in the sewing group with her maids if she doesn’t want to. Do you wonder what you gave up?”

Arya sighed. “I do,” she whispered, “I didn’t, not until Ser Davos told us. But it made me think about the Lady Brienne. Ser Brienne. How hard it must’ve been for her growing up, so tall and strong, se surely must look awful in those elaborate dresses, you have to admit. She fought hard to be who she became, but it must’ve been a struggle. I’m not sure I could’ve done it if I was her.”

“She deserves to be happy,” Jon added, “She was loyal, dutiful, if not a bit too stubborn at it. Like you, you are all those things, in your own way, Arya. You deserve to be happy, too.”

“But what if I can’t be happy,” she said lowly, “What if it’s not what I thought. I thought, if I became a warrior, I’d be happy, that I’d never be happy if I became a lady in a fancy dress, wife of some lord of some keep, popping out babies so my husband has his heirs. What if one thing doesn’t go without the other?”

“You love someone,” Jon remarked, “Does he love you back?”

Arya sighed. “In any other situation I’d want to kill you for this.”

“And why is this situation different?”

“Because this is goodbye,” she whispered. Jon looked ahead; he could see the tiny flicker of light far ahead. It was goodbye, indeed.

“I don’t know,” she whispered then, “I never asked.”

“Then perhaps you ought to find out.”

“Have you ever really loved someone, Jon.”

It was Jon’s time to sigh heavily. Time for truths to be spoken, just between the two of them. “I thought I did, but then I found, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the real thing. Then I thought I couldn’t, and I think what’s left to find is that I did, but I was a fool, and I only realised how big a fool I was when it’s too late. Whomever I loved won't matter anymore, I lost all my options. That’s why I say, you ought to find it out.”

“Have you found it out?”

“I didn’t need to,” Jon chuckled, “Women have this thing, all of them. They just let it be known, they make it plainly clear when they want something. Or someone. All of them do.”

“Not me,” Arya said.

“I wonder if that’s true,” Jon remarked, “From what you told me, you’ve been told. You’ve been told that he knows.”

Arya didn’t answer for a long moment.

“I thought he meant that he sees,” she whispered, “He sees that I have my own battles to fight. To be accepted.”

“Perhaps he meant that,” Jon smiled at her, “I told you, you ought to find out. No point trying to figure from some words.”

“Perhaps I will,” she said then.

“I suggest that you do,” Jon whispered, “I gave my word that I’ll have to keep otherwise.”

She nodded. They walked in silence, as Jon wondered about it. He gave his word. What was it worth? He never found out if it was worth anything. If it was wanted, he’s never got an answer. And he asked, he barely asked anything, but he asked that, plainly. He got no answer. There was no point for him asking anything else, he thought then.

“This is where I leave you,” Arya stopped. The end of the tunnel was now well within sight. “I can’t go further; the sun will be up soon. I need to get back to Ragman’s Harbor, else I’ll have to figure a different way not to disobey your orders.”

Jon nodded. “Save her, Arya,” he whispered, “Save her, or avenge her. But if you can save her, please do me a favour.”

“What favour?”

“I told Davos to tell them all that I’m dead, tell them the same story. If you get there in time, let her know that it’s not true. Tell Sansa I’m alive.”


	95. Epilogue - New Terra I.

“Come here.”

Desmera turned, her face still full of the anger she felt.

“Come here, I brush your hair,” Baelor tried to smile.

“Come here and brush it,” she said before she turned back toward the mercury glass, continuing to untangle the braids. Baelor did as she told him to, not without a deep sigh. His little wife was angry with him. He took the brush from her hand.

“I’ve not done this in a very very long time,” he said softly.

“Don’t pretend you’re doing it for me,” Desmera hissed. “You’re doing it because you want me to tell.”

“I do want you to tell, Desmera,” Baelor declared, “But it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy brushing your hair. You’re my wife.”

She bit her lower lip; he saw in the glass.

“Yes, now you remind me of it, too,” she hissed.

“I take it, your Lord father saw it his duty to remind you,” he remarked.

She jumped from her chair, facing him. “What am I?!”

“I’m not sure I understand the question, Desmera.”

“Oh you do understand, Baelor,” she scoffed, “You, and father, and my brothers, everyone! Here’s the stupid little girl, trueborn and noble, grown and flowered ripe to be sold! Be a good wife, open your legs and pop out some babies, but Gods forbid you speak! Oh no, don’t you dare, stupid little Desmera, what kind of daughter are you?! What kind of wife are you, that you cannot even do this! You had one thing to do, stop sticking your stupid nose into matters of men, go fuck that fat husband of yours, you stupid girl! You want to know what he’s told me?! This is what he’s told me!!!”

By the time she finished, her eyes were full of tears that now broke free as she turned, unwilling to cry in front of her husband. Baelor just stood, frozen, wondering if it was the shock of the unexpected outburst, or the anger over what he’s heard that made him unable to act. Women.

No, not women. Not his beautiful little wife, but her father. Redwyne the snake.

“I’ll have a word with your father on the morrow, Desmera,” he said lowly.

“And what good would that do to me,” she whimpered as she turned, “You don’t understand, do you? You go and have your words, and what do you think happens? I’m not as stupid as you all think me to be, I know what will happen.”

“This is different,” Baelor said sternly, “And you’re not stupid, I don’t think you are. You are my wife; you are a Hightower for Gods’ sake! No one fucking talks to you like that!”

She burst out in a laugh.

“I’ll never be a Hightower.”

“You already are one,” Baelor said softly.

“No,” she shook her head, “I am a Redwyne, I got the reminder.”

“What are you talking about?!” Baelor finally found his legs and moved closer.

“Don’t you touch me,” she hissed as he raised his hands to hold her.

“Look at me,” he said kindly, “Desmera, look at me.”

It took a long moment, but she finally did.

“Your father is a fucking snake, he’s always been a fucking snake, who tormented you for being a girl. I get that. You’re not his to torment anymore, do you understand? You’re my wife, and a Hightower. I shall have a word with him tomorrow, and if he ever as much as glances at you in a way I don’t approve after this, I swear it’ll be the last day he…”

“Stop it,” she whispered. “He’s my father, you don’t cut him down.”

He wiped the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs, “Can we stop the quarrel,” he whispered, but instead of an answer, he got a sobbing woman falling into his arms. It took her quite a while to calm, Baelor began to wonder if those tears were collected for years, yearning for the moment they could finally break free. But finally, her sobbing ceased, instead he got slender arms wrapped around him.

“I told you, he won’t tell,” she whispered, “And you still sent me. And you don’t tell, either. You say I’m not stupid. But you treat me as if I was, and he treats me as if I was.”

“You’re not stupid,” he said, “I was the one stupid to send you. I was desperate.”

She parted from him. “For what?”

He sighed. “You need to decide, Desmera. You need to decide if you’re a Redwyne or a Hightower. You need to pick a side.”

He turned and moved to grab his overcoat, fully intent to leave her to think.

“Are you leaving me,” she asked suddenly.

“If you want to think about it,” he said softly, “I can leave you for a bit to think about it. Check on the guards or something.”

She gave him a smile. “Do you see me as one of your own? Like Humfrey?”

“Humfrey is my little brother,” Baelor shrugged, “I spent more than half my life dragging him out of whatever mischief he dug himself in. No, I don’t see you like him, you don’t give me constant headaches.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know,” Baelor said, “I still don’t see you like him. But you are one of my own. The Starks call it a pack, like a pack of wolves, the sisters and Jon Targaryen, they are the pack. We have our own pack. Humfrey, you and I are the pack.”

“But Humfrey is betrothed to the Queen.”

“I suppose it’ll be one pack then,” Baelor shrugged, “But we will always have our own. One log is never enough for a fire. Two can make it, if the winds are kind. Three is good. We have three.”

“That’s your answer,” she smiled, “We are logs.”

“No,” Baelor chuckled, “Of course not, but I’m no poet, Desmera. I told you, in my eyes you’re a Hightower. I said the words with you. I think what matters is how you see yourself, not how I see you, or how your father sees you. In truth, I think what he says matters exactly nothing, if you ask me, but it’s your decision. You’re smart, you can make your own decisions.”

“And what if I’m a Redwyne,” she asked.

“Well, then I won’t ask you to ask things of your father,” Baelor said, hoping he didn’t seem as sad as he felt at the prospect. “But I hope we can still be man and wife. I don’t need a repeat of what I had before.”

She nodded. He’s put on his cloak, “I go check on the guards. And Reed.”

“And the Queen,” she added.

“Her, too,” he said. “Then I come and check on you.”

He opened the door.

“Baelor,” she called out and he turned, “I always wanted to be a Hightower, ever since I can remember. I wanted to live in the tower, learn the secrets of the world, surrounded by people like you. You were my hero growing up.”

“And now I am your husband,” he whispered before he left.

*****

He walked the corridors, almost in a daze of what has just happened. He remembered a first quarrel from another marriage, not at all dissimilar to this one. That was also about heirs, only slightly differing in content while completely different in the times and surroundings. It had to do with Garth, and a year of marriage producing two miscarriages, to which Garth – the fool that he was – made loud remarks that he’s second in line to Hightower. Baelor’s wife ran, and cried, and when she was done crying, she confronted him about the same issue. Perhaps it was something wrong with him, he wondered now. It still boiled down to the same issue. Redwyne, that illustrious name, Olenna Tyrell’s family, with all that brought to them, and all of them keenly aware of it.

All of them, but not Desmera. She never seemed that interested in politics. And now, torn between the two houses like another Redwyne woman before her, she had to deal with the politics of it, too. She wasn’t ready for any of this. She was sensitive, she was a fragile woman anyways, always had been, and her current circumstances and her upbringing didn't provide her with much comfort. She needed a man to protect her. Baelor felt like a failure, for leaving her alone in the chamber. Screw the guards, they can be without him for one night. He turned around.

“My Lord!” he heard behind him, just as he began the walk back, “My Lord, wait!”

And so, he turned once more. “What the fuck is it?!”

“I am sorry, my lord,” the guard stopped, somewhat startled. “There’s a ship. In the bay, there’s a ship.”

“A ship,” Baelor took a deep breath. “Braavosi?”

“No, my Lord,” and Baelor exhaled slowly, listening to the guard. “It’s strange. I don’t know the flag of it, my Lord.”

“Then describe it to me.”

“Like a… bear. A bear, holding an axe? It makes no sense.”

“It makes a lot of sense,” Baelor laughed, “That, is the sigil of the free city of Norvos.”

“Norvos…” the guard’s eyes lit up, “Where the Wolves come from?”

“Yes, boy, where the Wolves come from. Now go and tell the Queen.”

*****

 

The sun shone high, and yet still; it hardly had an effect on just how cold it was on the ground. Winter has come for Essos, finally it seemed to catch up with the fact that there was a vast mass of land, way-way larger than poor war-torn Westeros, just waiting for the snow to conquer. Soon, Jon knew, it’ll begin to fall. How well do dragons fare in snow?

He could feel the connection, not that he tried to focus on it so far. His only focus was to put some distance between himself and the city he hated the most. Or at least that was how he felt now. Odds were, soon Braavos will have to surrender the top position, likely to Meereen.

Jon wondered about it; how much he knew. How much he’s learned since he’s arrived in Braavos. He really knew nothing, perceived nothing of the extent of just how bad this really had been.

Back in Westeros, while they fought the worst war in living memory, a so-called Lord conspired to take the Iron Throne by marrying Dany. Had this merchant, Illirio Mopatis supporting the endeavour, and also Varys. The merchant of Pentos with ties close to the Stag King… perhaps they supported it even long before the war. No, they supported Dany’s brother. Jon’s own uncle. He was a prick, by every account Jon’s heard.

But then he died, Dany’s husband killed him, because he was a prick. And this little plot, a Targaryen Reconquista, has moved on to find a new center of all its affections. Dany. And she had no clue, all along. Varys made it to Meereen, whether or not that was part of the plot, or the plot moved on once he’s arrived and saw that she wasn’t her brother with tits, now mattered very little. Jon thought it to be the latter. He believed that Varys moved on, because he got disenchanted, with his plot without purpose, seeing the Lannister rule in all its glory from the inside, and perhaps even due to some affection toward Tyrion Lannister whom he helped escape that night. The night the Imp shot his own father with a crossbow. While old Tywin Lannister sat on the privy, definitely not shitting gold.

Like a bad comedy, this was, and they were the laughingstock of it. In any case, Jon was certain that by the time Dany sailed to Meereen, and Varys had begun recruiting Westeros, Varys’ intentions were once more clear. A Targaryen rule, on his terms, or whomever dictated the terms.

Jon thought about that a lot in the caves. He never doubted that Dany was the key, Dany was to rule. In the end, he made that same decision and yet in the end, Dany left Westeros, when there was no one left to oppose her. It was clear to Jon, what the problem was, he’s spent enough time with Dany to see it. She was headstrong. She didn’t follow anyone’s agenda but her own. If she believed in something, she went for it, and never faltered until she achieved her goal. True, she listened to her advisors, but one didn’t need much time spent with her to see, her way of listening didn’t equal following. She followed her own rules, either one aligned and helped her pave the way, for a common cause, or fought her and lost.

Anyone with that much drive, that much determination was impossible to be tamed. Dany was the only one with the name, but she was a woman. There’s one way a woman can always be tamed, in these times, on either side of the Narrow Sea, a man’s word weighed more than the word of a woman. Wed her, bed her, and take what is hers. Matrimony they call it, but there’s never been an equality to it, and in that convention lied the resolution to Varys’ predicament.

Give Dany a husband, a man strong willed, yet one who knows where his loyalties should lie once he wears the crown, a man indebted… It infuriated Jon. The only thing that infuriated him more, was that Dany wanted him. That he was the perfect resolution to this predicament. He had the right name, and he had Dany’s approval. Who knows, perhaps he was right, and he even had her love.

It took Jon a very long time to understand why he never won Varys’ approval. Fool that he was, yearning for everyone’s acceptance all his life, he had real trouble understanding why when he was the most adored man of Westeros, Varys despised him. So much so that the Spider tried to undermine him, to separate him from Dany, to make Dany believe that he’d move against her, that he was on the verge of betraying her. To make her lose faith in Jon, so that Jon becomes an enemy. Dany was ruthless to her enemies.

At first, Jon thought it was because the agreements were already made, there was no way back. But that was a lie, he knew, perhaps all along. It was a lie he told himself to excuse the betrayal. The truth was way more obvious, if one broke it down and got this far in untangling the mess.

Dany had the right name, and so did Jon. Dany had the blood of the dragon, pure and preserved. Jon? He was half a dragon, half a wolf. But the half dragon in him, paired with the blood of the first men, was a combination almost as lethal as pure dragonblood. He defeated death. He was just as headstrong, just as determined, and just as hard to control. He could’ve never served the purpose of men who were willing to come that far to have their way, their Queen and King, their idea of rule. No, Jon was unsuitable for the job in their eyes.

Once Jon understood it, it was surprisingly easy to accept it. It made him wonder if he was suitable for the job in anyone’s eyes, but he didn’t linger much on that. In his eyes, Dany was the ruler. She was the ideal, and not in the least because she was a woman. And a woman had care like no man could muster. Dany had what it took to understand what was required, and the will to do what had to be done, or so Jon thought, because he still couldn’t understand why she left Westeros. It didn’t really matter – soon he’ll get the chance to ask her. Soon, and he’ll see her again.

Whatever other emotions attempted to break to the surface were suppressed and left where they came from, deep in the bottom of the mess that was his usual emotional state. It was like he told Arya – he waited until choices made themselves. He felt guilty about it, slightly, but he was in no position to make any choices. He still didn’t know a lot.

What he knew was this. The Lord – Dany’s wannabe husband and king, and that fucking magister or merchant or whatever he was, Illirio Mopatis were still at it, they’ve not given up. They had the Bank’s support, that was clear. They had the House of Black and White, and Jon knew now why: In the eyes of the Faceless he defeated their God. It must’ve been an easy trade for this Jaqen H’Ghar, the name of the girl he saved and nurtured, trained for years, for the life of the man who dared to stand against the God of Death. And the Bank… As Jon saw it, it had to do with profits. Perhaps it had to do with the slave trade, in Essos that was definitely motivation. Removing Dany from Essos, severing her ties with the Bay of Dragons was essential to restore the old order. That made Jon want to puke, men and women and children sold to slavery, for generations. No wonder why Dany wanted none of it, now that Jon had seen how slaves fared, he knew, if he could’ve, he would’ve done the same.

There was something else, though, a much bigger opportunity there for the taking, undefended: Westeros. True, there was the Reach, the Stormlands, but most of Westeros had been devastated, its people massacred. Who would be there to oppose a new regime? As Jon saw it, a new regime meant new opportunities for the Bank, whatever they had in mind.

He couldn’t tell much of what they had in mind, but he was certain, it involved colonising Westeros in some way, politically, economically… change it to their own way, build it up the way they preferred. And thus, from the ashes of the Great War would emerge a kingdom in line with whatever they had in mind. Ready for exploitation, for sell-out, for slavery… and whatever worse could be thought up for a kingdom that in truth many on this side of the Narrow Sea tended to look down upon as backward thinking, old fashioned and rigid. And sold-out, in the case of the Bank, who probably thought it already theirs.

If Jon was perfectly honest with himself, he couldn’t care less of the ‘why’. They still breathed, and they made it clear that as long as they breathed, they will not stop working for that goal. Jon understood that – the prize was a whole continent. He had no doubt, once they took the South, they’d easily conquer the North – especially now that Sansa sold the Wolves into contract, they weren’t there to protect the independent kingdom of the North. Sansa was in a much worse danger and predicament than any of them perceived.

Not that Jon thought much of independence. He left that behind a long time ago, even before the kingdom itself had been completely devastated – albeit he had to admit, it wasn’t total devastation. As far as he could tell the Northern Mountains were unaffected, the whole Western half was left untouched because it’d been evacuated, same for the north-eastern keeps. There was good ground to rebuild upon. They needed a new sea trading post in the East, two would be even better, and they needed western naval ports. They needed a navy; Jon did wonder why no Stark ever bothered to re-establish the navy.

Apart from that, what he thought was needed was his dream. Rebuild the Twins as an independent crossing that is fully controlled by and only answering to the crown. Expand it, with settlements on both sides, inns and alehouses, perhaps villages for those who worked at the crossing. Rebuild the bridge, before it collapses, and the towers. In the caves, he spent some time dreaming it further. There was no capitol of the South. He wondered if it would be too far-fetched to establish one just right at the Twins, or perhaps at Harrenhal. Of course, it meant demolishing that accursed stone castle with its melted towers first, but the site was suitable as far as he could tell. It wasn’t accident that he wanted the survivors to establish camp there, and judging by their choice to move east, they understood it. Maidenpool with its bay was perfectly suitable to build-up as a major port, and so the capitol itself would still retain access to the Sea, without having to deal with sailors and brothels and whatever else came with a major harbour.

Of course, it wasn’t Jon’s decision. Just as it wasn’t his decision to deal with the Citadel. He didn’t mean about the Faceless sent there to steal some Gods damned dragon eggs. He’ll have to deal with that. He meant the status of the Citadel, its control over affairs, and what he saw as deliberate withholding of knowledge. It wasn’t his decision to build schools, to have maesters training commonfolk. It wasn’t his decision to establish a senate, either.

Those dragon eggs made him wonder now. Not their existence, that was more of a curiosity, as well as proof of what he perceived to be the problem with the Citadel – they had too much say in how things were. Arya’s words made Jon wonder about them. Lose them eggs, and a few years from now anything good he’s done will be for nothing when twenty dragons will burn down the whole of Westeros.

Twenty dragons. In truth, he couldn’t wait to tell Dany about them. He could imagine it, twenty dragons flying in the sky. Twenty beautiful, dreadful beasts the size of a castle or a flagship.

Yes, he wanted those dragons. He wanted them, because of the exact same potential that his enemies saw in them. Except, he had the blood, and Dany had the blood. Jon never saw Rhaegal or Drogon be dangerous to their people. No, Dany trained them well. She could do the same, twenty more times. She could raise them, and a few years from now, everything good he’s done would be protected from anyone and everyone, because no one in their right mind would ever dare to move against Westeros again. Arya was right, they needed to capture those eggs, so that they never have to deal with a situation like this again. So that their children, and the children of their children can live in prosperity after they rebuilt a strong, independent Westeros. And isn’t that what Reed said once? The one who can prove that they can protect the generations to come is the one people will follow and support. Someone said it, for sure.

He felt a warm rush through his mind. Agreement, recognition. He smiled in return. He was close, and getting closer.

_Come now, it’s been too long. I agree._

Soon enough he felt the winds picking up. He dismounted and took his saddlebag, securing it on his back now with a little more experience than the first time he’s done so. Then he slapped on the rear of the horse and it ran. It didn’t get too far though, before the fire caught it. Jon wanted to be angry, that poor animal carried him here, but he couldn’t. He felt the hunger. And he was surprised.

Rhaegal didn’t come alone. There were two dragons now, landing behind him, and he turned and watched as they tore the burnt horse in two, then swallowed their halves of the supper he thus brought to them. Then he just stood there and waited.

_I’m not sure how I can do with both of you. He should be with Dany._

There was desperation in response, confusion. Even anger.

_Now, don’t be angry, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why you returned to me._

The anger faded, slowly, cautiously, as the green dragon neared. Jon reached out his hand.

_I missed you too. I really did._

The wing lowered, finally. The invitation was there, and Jon took it, climbing up with ease. His laughter was reciprocated in his mind, there was happiness. He felt it clearly as Rhaegal took to the sky. He glanced back, but Drogon was following.

_Why did you come TOGETHER._

Rejection was the response. Jon couldn’t understand it, but his confusion was met with more confusion. Instinctively, he thought of assurance. He needed to give assurance. He tried, in response to the distant yearning he could perceive. No, not of Rhaegal. From Rhaegal he perceived protection, and a sense of fury, besides the readiness to protect. No, this was the black dragon. The black dragon felt lost. Jon had no connection to the black dragon, he never felt anything from Drogon before. It was surprising, to say the least.

_I will not send you away again, either of you. If your brother wants to stay, he can stay. I may need his help, and yours. We still have enemies._

Burn them all. That was the response. Jon laughed aloud.

_Yes, we shall burn them all._

But then, amidst the eager agreement he received as response, he had a different thought. He could perhaps spend a little time.

_Turn west. No, not that far west, we have no time for that. Just a little, just out to sea. You can catch a fish for yourselves, if you like. A dessert, after my poor horse._

*****

 

They all lined up, like they did for the Essosi, Tycho Nestoris, except Lord Reed, and even Meera Reed stood in the line. Alys Karstark no longer was the only Northerner beside her, Sansa told herself with a smile.

The dinghy neared, Sansa could already make out Ser Davos standing in the middle, just in front of the two men rowing.

His face was stern, he frequently touched his beard. Too frequently.

The smile faded from Sansa’s lips. Instead, he studied Ser Davos. Black hooded cape, black overcoat, Essosi fashion. Gloves, his hands on a chest, a chest covered in a flag. No, a banner, one she knew well, three crimson dragonheads and a white wolf with crimson eyes.

She swallowed hard, her eyes once more taking in the face. It wasn’t stern. It was sorrowful.

She turned around, swiftly taking the steps back to the keep. The world was spinning. No, the world has been lost.

*****

“This is really something,” Humfrey declared as he dumped himself behind her on the deck. “A hundred refugees, rounded up within only hours in the night, and they were all there.”

“Westerosi stick together,” Arya remarked, “For once.”

”It’s not like they didn’t know each other before all the crap that they went through,” Humfrey remarked. “I still find it remarkable. The whole thing, I mean. Yesterday evening, we knew nearly nothing. Then we learned of the plot, we acquired a captain, means to get a ship, means to get men to sail it, and we managed to collect all our people stranded in the city, all before the first light of the sun today.”

“We didn’t manage to get much supplies,” Arya shrugged. “Don’t be so proud about it.”

“We cannot do everything I suppose,” Humfrey grinned, “They brought their own supplies. They brought what they had, there’s plenty of food to go around.”

“That’s good.”

“You don’t seem to be content,” Humfrey smiled at her, “No, Arya Stark always has something to be discontent about.”

“The fuck you know,” she hissed. She’s got no response, only the eyes she felt on her for a long moment. Her own gaze wandered upwards, settling on the flag. “Braavosi flag.”

“I know,” she heard Humfrey beside her, “I told Maerreo to change it, but he says it’s safer. As long as we are in open water, that flag is our best chance against pirates is what he said.”

“There’s a point in that,” Arya nodded, “Perhaps the pirates also fear the Bank.”

“Everyone seems to fear the fucking Bank.”

“Did you wonder about it,” she asked, turning toward him, “How they all just live and starve and take what little they are given, and right in front of their eyes is the GREAT INSTITUTION of the Bank. If that’s the better system than ours, then I want nothing of it. It’s the same, kings or banks, put a different name on the same shit, it still smells like shit in the canals.”

“I don’t wonder about such grant things,” Humfrey shrugged. “I wonder who the old lady was I helped onto the ship. I didn’t see her since.”

“Perhaps you haven’t looked close enough,” she glanced aside with a grin.

Humfrey sighed. “How did she die?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you wear her face.”

“Long story.”

Humfrey chuckled, “Because we don’t have all the time in the world on this ship, please don’t bore me with your long story.”

“It wasn’t me,” she said after a long moment of pause. “It was the Waif, I presume.”

“The Waif?”

“The Waif,” she nodded, “I trained with her. She was a bitch for sure, but she trained me well. Forced me to train, to beat the shit out of her one day.”

“And did you?”

Arya looked at him, the coldness of her eyes giving him shivers. “She wanted to kill me. He promised my name, because I didn’t kill a good woman, and she was sent to kill me. Her face is in the hall of faces instead.”

Humfrey nodded. “Hall of faces?”

“In. the House of Black and White,” she stood. “Why are we talking about this?”

“I don’t know, we can talk about anything. Like I said, there’s plenty of time.”

“About anything,” she studied him as he stood. “Even Sansa.”

It caught his attention. “There’s not much to say about your sister.”

“You’ll marry her.” Arya stood. “You’ll be King in the North.”

“I’ll do my duty by her.”

She glanced back at him, as he stood there, as if waiting for something. “I go check on the people. We need a fucking flag, when we take down the Braavosi flag, we need one that doesn’t get us attacked by our own people.” Then she left.

*****

 

The winds picked up. Humfrey stood there, wondering what transpired, how it looked like a talk about Sansa Stark was about to unfold, then how it got cut so short. Perhaps Arya didn’t want to talk about her sister after all. Not that Humfrey minded it, he didn’t even want to think about Sansa Stark, lest he feels the awful guilt he always felt when he thought about Sansa Stark. It’ll come, no need to hasten it while he could avoid it.

The people already began to emerge from the cabin below. He wondered how they must feel now – going home, yet knowing it’s not really home. It’s not Lannisport. It’s a damned camp, they’re sailing into danger. From one predicament into another. Why they were willing to trade the predicament they knew with the unknown. How much walking on their own land under their feet meant to anyone.

The winds were strong, the ship picked up pace.

“What is that,” he heard a boy shout beside him, pointing at the sky. Humfrey looked up, wide grin on his lips.

“That,” he pointed up, too, “That is a dragon.”

“A dragon?” The boy’s eyes grew wide in amazement, “A dragon!”

He ran away, shouting, a dragon was in sight. People began to rush to the deck, awe on their faces. Humfrey wondered for a moment why they didn’t fear. Then he understood. They never saw a dragon; they could only have known the stories that reached Braavos after they alighted there. In their misery, they heard about the Prince promised, riding his green dragon and defeating the dead, the cause of all their loss and pain. They saw no reason to fear. To them, the dragon was a sign of salvation, of being saved.

He looked up once more. It was definitely a dragon but… not one. There were two of them now, circling in the sky.

Just then, they began to dive. The people shouted, not in fear, still not in fear in the sight of the diving dragons, but in praise. It bordered unbelievable, he thought as he watched the black dragon. It had no rider. But then the green came in sight, and he laughed, along with the people, as he watched the green dive into the water, changing course at the last moment as its claws reached under water.

Jon leaned close to the dragon, Humfrey could see as he listened to the shouts of the Prince promised, there he is… the dragon rose from the water in an instant, and in its claws was a fish. A shark. It circled around, and above the ship, as it dropped its cargo on the deck.

“I see, shark stew is on the menu tonight,” Humfrey heard behind himself and turned. Maerreo stood there, his face mimicking the hundred other faces. Men began to take the shark, to finish it off and pick it up, a sailor ordering, ‘to the kitchen with it!’

He only nodded as he watched the black dragon repeating the manoeuvre, another fish caught. But this didn’t get dropped on deck, no. It was thrown up in the air, and the dragon breathed fire on it, before it caught the falling, smoking remains of it and swallowed in one go. The people laughed. Their laughter was happy and carefree, something Humfrey didn’t hear for a long time. It was contagious.

“There were days when I wanted them to find me,” Maerreo said lowly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Giving up,” he said, as his eyes teared up. “I am talking about giving up, Westerosi. And I am ashamed when I think about it, how I cursed myself for not turning my back on these poor souls, when I tried to convince myself that what I did was wrong and tell myself that only I was to blame for the troubles I brought upon my family.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Humfrey said kindly, “None of it was. You were… the right man in the right place at the right time. It wasn’t coincidence, it was fate. These people needed you, and you were there.”

“Yes, but it meant I wasn’t there for my own family. Maerrapho didn’t deserve that, he’s two little ones… now he lost everything because of me. He sent messenger to the Bank; the inn is theirs as payment of the loan. I never wanted that, he lost everything.”

“That’s not your fault, I am telling you,” Humfrey said as he’s put his hand on the man’s shoulder, not without noting to himself that once more, Maerreo was standing straight. A splash of water hit them – the green dragon had been at it, catching one more fish near the ship.

“How does he do it,” Maerreo asked, amazed at the sight of Jon atop the dragon. “How does he tame a beast like that?”

“It’s in his blood,” Humfrey said nonchalantly. “The blood of the dragon it’s called, Targaryen blood. But he’s just as much a wolf, he can do it with his direwolf, too.”

“He has a direwolf.”

“He does,” Humfrey grinned, “He can even warg it.”

“Warg?”

“Enter the mind of the wolf, have it do his bidding for him.”

“Gods be good,” Maerreo sighed, “I would not want to be his enemy.”

“You are not his enemy, Maerreo,” Humfrey laughed at Maerreo’s stunned face, “You are his friend. Trust me, he stands by his friends. He needed this, he needed something like what you did, saving his people. He can’t save them all on his own, he needs men like you.”

“That’s good,” Maerreo nodded, “For I don’t think we’ll be welcomed back in Braavos. We are the homeless now. Ahhh, look!”

Humfrey looked as the green dragon threw the fish high up in the air, and burned it. Then it caught it much like the black one did it before, and swallowed it whole.

“They do need to eat,” Humfrey laughed, “I suppose Jon is attending to their hunger while assuring himself. Like I said, he needed to know.”

“He’s not coming with us?”

“No,” Humfrey’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a war brewing, Maerreo, he’ll be fighting it. But you’re not homeless, your family isn’t homeless. You’re as much a Westerosi now as any of us. Once you docked, report to Hightower for service.”

“Hightower,” Maerreo remarked, “Like those in Old Town? Word is they are necromancers.”

Humfrey laughed aloud. “Words… they say what people like to hear.”

The dragons circled above the ship once more, but then they turned east. They quickly disappeared from sight among the winter clouds.

“Well, now I’ve seen a dragon, two dragons even,” Maerreo declared, “I just wanted to say, I am glad they didn’t find me. You are right, Westerosi. It was fate. It was all meant to be.”

Humfrey nodded.

“Gather the people and the sailors, Maerreo,” he said then, still staring toward the direction of where the dragons disappeared, all the while Maerreo did as told.

 

“You’ve all seen the dragons I presume,” he began, but the cheering interrupted him. It took a few moments to calm.

“Now I must ask something of you all,” he said. “You are here, because of the man atop that green dragon, we are all here because of him. In return, I need your help.”

“What’s it, my lord,” a man shouted.

“I ain’t anyone’s Lord,” Humfrey smiled, “But it is this. Forget you’ve seen him. Not a word of it once we arrived.”

“Why, they don’t know of the dragons?” Another man shouted.

“Have they not heard the stories?” A woman asked, and many rumbled.

“They know the stories,” Humfrey declared, “They lived those stories, they fought the dead and survived. They’ve seen the dragons. You can tell them of the dragons, I ask you not to tell of the rider.”

“But why?”

“Because it is better, for now,” he said. “Because we may be sailing for Westeros, but I won’t lie to you, we are not without danger. While he deals with all his enemies, it is better not to speak about it, do you understand?”

“The Iron Bank is his enemy,” an old woman stepped forward, the woman who sold the tapestries.

“Perhaps, but I assure you, whomever they are, they cannot hide any longer,” Humfrey said. “There is one more thing, listen carefully.”

The rumble silenced.

“I know you feel that the Lannisters abandoned you,” Humfrey began, and raised his hand to indicate, he was to continue. “Jaime Lannister took his forces to the Wall when he learned of the threat, that an army of dead men was to come and kill us all. He fought there, and in every battle in that accursed war, the Lannister men… the Lions as we call them, they fought bravely. They lost a battle at the Gods Eye, and were trying to lure the dead to the capitol to fight in the plain there. They couldn’t have known that the dead abandoned that hunt and turned toward the West, and even if they did, they could’ve never caught them. I know you all lost people you loved. I also know, Jaime Lannister wept when he learned of your fate. Tyrion Lannister wept.”

“Tyrion Lannister killed his father,” a man said, “Everyone knows it.”

“And everyone knows his father was an arsehole, too,” Humfrey chuckled, “Who needed killing. Tyrion Lannister is Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen, aunt of the man who helped Maerreo ferry you home. His work with the Queen joining the war, marching to the Wall besides Jaime Lannister made all the difference in defeating the army of the dead. He is responsible for the camp we’re sailing to. The camp has many peoples, not just the Westerlands, but the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and many more from the Kingdom of the North, who have their Queen with them. Queen Sansa is the niece of the man who helped Maerreo ferry you home.” He paused for a moment, “Is that clear? I don’t mean to confuse you.”

“We’re not as dumb as you think us to be, my Lord,” a man laughed, and many laughed with him.

“I meant no offense,” Humfrey grinned. “I wanted you to know what I know of this camp. I was there when the orders were issued to establish it, it’s not ruled by a King or Queen, but a council of the Lords. Queen Sansa, Tyrion Lannister, Lord Baelor Hightower, Lord Paxter Redwyne, and Lord Jaime Lannister. He’s the Lord of Casterly Rock now.”

“You say we sail to this camp,” a man stepped forward, “When do we sail back home?”

“There’s nothing back home,” someone shouted, “Lannisport burned!”

“I presume there are dead bodies back at your home,” Humfrey remarked, and they all went silent, “Just like there are countless of them around Kings Landing. For now, it is best to stay in the camp. It is supplied from the Reach and the Stormlands. I’ve not seen it myself; I cannot tell you much more. It may not be easy there, but it’s certainly safer there. Ten thousand men of Hightower protect the camp.”

“And what are we to do?” the man asked, “If we don’t return home, what are we to do?”

“There’s plenty of work to be had, I am sure of it,” Humfrey said, “But I told you, I’ve not seen the camp. I know builders were ordered from the Reach, along with supplies. Once we docked, report to Jaime Lannister. He’ll be beyond himself to see you all.”

“There’s one thing,” the man asked. “The Lannisters and the Starks and the rest of them, they were at each other’s throats for years…”

“That is the past!” Humfrey scoffed, “Not in this camp, you hear me? No one will tolerate any such behaviour. The Lannisters fought the dead and their people suffered, you know it better than anyone, and the Starks fought throughout all the war, their people suffered as well, and the people of the Riverlands, the Crownlands… You weren’t the only ones overran by the dead, the Riverlands, the Vale… What’s done is done. We can’t change it, but this is not what has been before. That is over. So many have died in this war, we cannot afford killing each other. We have to learn to live with each other. That is all I wanted to say. I hear we shall be served shark stew for supper, that’s something to look forward to.”

The man who stepped forward now came to Humfrey, as he watched the rest of them disperse, deep in discussions about what they’ve heard.

“You are a Lord, my Lord,” the man said.

“No, I ain’t,” Humfrey turned toward the man, “Not in this moment anyway.”

“You’re a Hightower,” the man pushed, “I’ve seen you before, it took me time to figure where. Old Town, that is where I’ve seen you. I used to help out on a ship before, loading work and the like. You’re the one who disappeared in Essos once before.”

“And I duly returned, just like I am now,” Humfrey sighed.

“Based on what I’ve seen of Essos, I don’t blame you for not taking a fancy to it,” the man said and Humfrey had to laugh. “My name is Keat.”

“You’re a Hightower?” Maerreo turned toward Humfrey in shock. “The thing I said, I meant no insult… my Lord…”

Humfrey laughed, loudly, “What things you said?”

“The thing about… the necromancers.”

“They are all necromancers, them Hightowers in their white tower,” Keat laughed, “Maerreo, everyone knows that.”

“It is known,” Humfrey grinned, “I told you Maerreo, words say what people want to hear. The name’s Humfrey Hightower.”

“Why you say you’re no Lord then,” Maerreo asked.

“Because I am not,” Humfrey shrugged, “I am the third son of a lord. My brother Baelor is Lord Hightower, it is he who I sent you Maerreo to serve.”

“Tell me true, Humfrey Hightower,” Keat said then, his face once more stern, “Is it true that all them wars are over, or are you daydreaming.”

Humfrey sighed, “The Westerosi stopped killing Westerosi, that is true,” he said lowly, “We had a common enemy. Wars tend to unite people; the enemy of my enemy is my friend as the saying goes… As for whether it is a lasting peace, I hope it is. But nothing happens by itself, Keat. If we want peace, we have to make it.”

“This said,” he sighed, “Don’t be surprised if battle lines will be drawn once more. Westerosi may be friends with Westerosi, but we have a whole other continent to worry about. Westeros is weak, devastated, easy prey. War may yet come to us again. We have to keep fighting TOGETHER.”

*****

Jon was still smiling, long after he left the ship behind, and he could feel his mood reciprocated by Rhaegal. The dragon was content, and Jon hoped that the other one felt the same way. He wondered if it was foolish, at first, showing himself so plainly, but the people seemed to enjoy the entertainment. Jon saw Humfrey on deck, so he decided, Humfrey will sort it out. He couldn’t worry about everything, and he needed to see them. To be certain that they sailed.

He didn’t wonder much about it though. His thoughts wandered toward the task ahead, a battle under Meereen, he was sure of it. Which as he glanced back at the ship made him realise just how big a fool he was.

They burned the fleet of the Iron Bank, the fleet that – as Humfrey pointed out – was not to sail against Dany, but after she’s been dealt with. No doubt, it was to ferry the victorious forces of their enemy to Westeros, to finish the job.

Jon had no doubt, there’ll be no forces of the enemy to ferry. But therein lied the problem. He could’ve had those damned ships sailed to Bhorash, and take control of them there. Then he could’ve used them to sail Griff and Edric’s forces back to Westeros. He didn’t think much of it, until he tried to recall what else he’s learned in Braavos. Recall the woman.

It was something the woman said. She declared in the catacomb, she’s to sail as well, to Westeros. There was something else she said though, that bothered Jon, because he also had no doubt, the woman is stranded in Braavos, for the time being. But not for long, soon enough she’ll take to a ship, she won’t wait for this Faceless Jaqen H’Ghar, she’ll sail. That realisation gave a whole new meaning to her earlier words, one that dampened Jon’s mood considerably.

This time we are prepared to do it the traditional way.

They were plotting a conquest of Westeros, resolved in Essos. But once her father’s way failed… then came the traditional way. And that was conquest by war.

Thus, Jon turned around once more. He needed to replace those damned ships of the Iron Bank, and quickly. There was only one place where he could get them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to churn this one out because there's a "turn" from this chapter on, a change of tone and I wanted to pick that up after the holiday instead of lingering in the build-up. This one's definitely my last Ch before Xmas tho so...
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!
> 
> PS - shout-out to the folks who were unhappy and said dragons could've hunted fish for the camp. They weren't to drop fish on deck, just hunt for themselves, but I remembered you. So shark stew is now on the menu :P
> 
> \+ PS2 - the title I changed “in honour of” a different TV show I’m currently hooked on, where the name of Maerreo’s ship came from. If you feel the need to binge a show, I recommend The Expanse. Space stuff at its finest imho lol


	96. Epilogue - New Terra II.

 

The view was grim, Jon thought – the scenery accurately reflecting the nature of the people who dwelled here. How could anyone call this place home? There was nothing about it that indicated even the smallest flicker of the warmth that characterised home in Jon’s eyes.

That is because they had nothing of the beauty of northern scenery, there were no green woods and farmlands. There were rocks, cold hard rocks.

The people took to reeving and raiding because there was no way they could grow anything on rocks. Make the most of what you got, they developed skills that didn’t relate to growing anything. Their skills related to taking, with nothing but their rock island to depend on, they took to what they had in abundance: The Sea.

The Iron Islands. Jon wondered whether there was any Iron in them, or it was merely a name derived from the hard nature of the people who called this miserable place home. He circled around, just enough to get the attention of the folk below, albeit he did it not without purpose. He was trying to find a landing site close enough to the tower structure these people called a castle. If they called it that. Perhaps he’ll ask the Queen of the Iron Islands.

Finally, Rhaegal landed. Jon wondered how instructions are passed on – he didn’t want Drogon to land and the black dragon continued circling in the sky. As soon as he walked off the wing, Rhaegal joined his brother, circling above Jon as he walked toward what he perceived the welcoming party.

“Your grace,” He could hear the familiar voice, but the men who surrounded the one who spoke only stared at him, motionless.

“Step aside,” He scoffed, “I didn’t come to provide you with entertainment.”

The murmur that followed certainly wasn’t a happy one, but slowly, the men obeyed. Theon stood behind them.

“I see,” Jon noted, “Morale isn’t overly high on the Iron Islands. I came to treat with your sister, Theon.”

He only nodded, pointing toward the high bridge that led into the tower.

“The fuck are they staring at,” Jon asked as the two of them began the short journey. He was acutely aware of how high he was, silently begging Rhaegal to be quick about the rescue if he fell.

“No reeving, no raiding, no raping,” Theon said lowly. “That was our way of life. Now we have nothing.”

“You do have something, Theon,” Jon remarked, “You have independence, the choice to do whatever you want. It’s only your fault if you don’t make anything of it.”

“What do you mean,” Theon asked.

“We’ll see,” Jon looked ahead at the guards, “Once I spoke to your sister. Perhaps there’s some kind of accommodation to be reached.”

“If there is,” Theon remarked bitterly, “It better be reached quickly before a mutiny.”

The guards measured him up before they stepped aside, and the door opened in front of him. Yara Greyjoy sat at a far table in an empty council chamber.

“The king in…” She laughed aloud, “Forgive me, you’re not king of anything in anywhere, actually.”

“No, I am not,” Jon declared. “I see ruling got to you.”

“You took away our way of life,” Yara stood, “Have you come to see how we fare?”

“Not exactly,” Jon said softly, “Albeit one look at the faces outside tells me clearly how you fare. Your people are used to living on spoils. Now there are no spoils to be had.”

Yara merely chuckled, without a response.

“I thought to appeal to your loyalty towards Daenerys,” Jon said.

“I saw the black dragon with you,” Yara shrugged, “Without her on it.”

“You ferried her to Meereen, she’s not in the neighbourhood. That is why I am here.”

“You want me to ferry her back,” Yara shrugged, “She doesn’t want to be ferried back. Why would she? There’s nothing but death here.”

“How much do you know about what is here,” Jon scoffed, “There is an allied camp…”

“At Maidenpool,” Yara interrupted, “I know. We see the ships of Old Town when we sail south, and the sailors all tell the same there. They ferry their supplies to Maidenpool. Not happier about it than my folk about our truce not to attack them and take those supplies to feed OUR CHILDREN.”

“I don’t want you to ferry Daenerys back here,” Jon remarked, changing the topic, “Not unless she decides so. But there’ll be a battle under Meereen, and seeing that we were foolish enough to burn the fleet we could use to ferry out our troops, I need ships. The Iron Fleet is the only fleet large enough to ferry thirty thousand.”

“A battle under Meereen,” Yara repeated, before she burst into loud laughter.

“You find that funny,” Jon said bitterly.

“I do,” Yara said. “You want the Iron Fleet to do your bidding, again.”

“Again? I’ve never asked you to do my bidding.”

“Targaryens,” Yara shrugged, “There’s no loyalty to appeal to, we gained our independence.”

“Do you even understand what the word ‘alliance’ means?”

“Of course I do,” Yara scoffed, “And I am well aware that I’ve not entered into any alliance with you.”

“Well perhaps now is as good a time as any,” Jon declared, dropping himself into a chair. “Considering that if you sit here for much longer, your own people will rebel against you. It won’t take longer than a fortnight I presume.”

“And then they shall sail and raid that camp at Maidenpool,” Yara remarked. “Albeit, now that the dragons seem to be near, they may reconsider.”

“So that’s the grand plan,” Jon nodded.

“That is our way of life,” Yara corrected, “That is what they want.”

“Well then perhaps it would be better to sail them,” Jon remarked, “Give the men something to do.”

“And what’s in it for us,” Yara shrugged, “We once more ferry troops across the Narrow Sea, without any payment or spoils. I’ve done that once because the Queen asked me. I owe you no favours.”

“I am not asking for a favour,” Jon smirked, “Once the battle is over, there’ll be spoils, I don’t care if you take it.”

“If you win the battle,” Yara remarked.

“Oh I will win it,” Jon’s smirk turned into a grin, “They don’t even know what’s coming for them.”

Yara merely nodded.

“She was right,” she said after a long moment.

“Who, Daenerys?”

“Yes, Queen Daenerys was right,” Yara began to explain, “She’s told me there’ll be a battle under Meereen. She’s told me she’ll lose it.”

“Not if I can help it,” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, “Why would she even say such a thing?”

Yara just shrugged, “How would I know. She only said, forces are plotting against her.”

Jon wondered about it for a moment.

“Are you telling me,” He stood, his fists clenching, “That she sailed to Meereen because she expected it? But why Meereen? There are 15 thousand in that fucking camp in Maidenpool.”

“How would I know,” Yara shrugged, “As I said, she didn’t explain, she only said what I told you. It’s not my business, I didn’t ask. I made it clear that it’s not my business.”

“Well, if Westeros is defeated,” Jon remarked, “If the Southern Kingdom is defeated the North will fall with it, especially now that it doesn’t have its fighting force. What do you think will happen after?” His eyes pierced hers, his frustration obvious. “I don’t think whomever defeats us will just sit back and allow your little kingdom to continue.”

“What are you telling me, Jon Targaryen?”

“I am telling you, Queen of the Iron Islands,” Jon scoffed, “That you can exclude yourself, but we are in this pile of shit together. You can’t defend yourself, you know that, not against a force large enough to defeat us.”

“I doubt it to be so hard to defeat you,” Yara remarked bitterly.

“It’s still much harder than to defeat you.”

“So, what do you want,” Yara asked then, “You didn’t come here for conversation.”

“I want you to sail to the Bay of Dragons,” Jon remarked, “Take your fleet and block the bay.”

“And?”

“That is all, I don’t need you to fight,” Jon shrugged, “Block any ship, shoot down any raven. That is all.”

“And?”

“And whatever spoils there are to be had, it’s yours.”

“I doubt that’ll satisfy the men.”

“I doubt it, too,” Jon shrugged, “But if you do that, the next task will be more than satisfying for the Iron Islands.”

“Next Task?”

“Aye,” Jon grinned, “I intend to destroy my enemies, Yara. I hope you’re ready to sail, because once I’m finished in Meereen I need my troops in Westeros. And I need the Iron Fleet besieging Braavos on Sea.”

“Braavos,” Yara repeated, “You’ve gone nuts.”

“Not in the least,” Jon declared, “I’ve just had enough being toyed with. It’s time for a change.”

“We’ll never defeat Braavos, the fleet of the Iron Bank…”

“We’ve burned it,” Jon shrugged, “The whole fleet was in harbour, ready to sail to Meereen. And we’ve burned them all. Now of course, they could muster merchant ships but what are merchant ships against the Iron Fleet? More spoils.”

For the first time, Yara’s face lit up.

“You mean this,” she said, as if waiting for affirmation.

“I do,” Jon grinned, “They don’t have their fleet. Block the city, they will lose their trade as well. Once I’m done in Westeros, they should be ripe for the taking.”

“The Iron Bank can easily call on fighting force.”

“I have the Golden Company and the Wolves,” Jon pointed out, “I presume they amassed a few more companies under Meereen. Who else will be there to call upon, who can match us? Who will stand against two dragons and thirty thousand of the best fighting force in Essos?”

Yara stood, “There is something about sailing in winter,” she said. “Did you know, many pirates stay at home, wherever that is, to wait out the winter?”

“I don’t know shit about sailing,” Jon chuckled.

“It is when the Ironborn favour to hunt,” she said, “Our ships are strong, our sails don’t get ripped by the stormwinds of winter.”

Jon just nodded, wondering where she was going. “So, you’re telling me, you could sail to Meereen.”

“I could,” she said, “And men need something to be occupied with, I give you that. It’s easy spoils, I give you that too, albeit, you forgive me if I take matters into my own hands, should you lose.”

“What’s that to mean,” Jon scoffed, “I won’t lose.”

“You lost many battles against the dead.”

“Depending on the view. A hundred thousand dead men and a skill to raise my own fallen, I wouldn’t actually call all of those battles a defeat. I reduced the numbers.”

“Devastated your own lands.”

“Something for something,” Jon felt frustration growing, his fists unwillingly clenching once more, “If you know better then tell me, how could I have done better?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “I haven’t seen them. Once you finished your business on Westeros, what do you intend to do?”

“Take the Hightower fleet to ferry my forces to Braavos, perhaps.”

“Perhaps?  Why don’t you take that fleet now?”

“Because they are doing what you said they are doing, they are supplying the camp. And perhaps, because I may not require an army there.”

She tilted her head sideways, clearly not understanding. “You want me to block the city for you, declare a war on Braavos of all places, and yet you just proclaimed that you may abandon me there.”

“I said no such thing,” Jon hissed, “This is getting tedious. I don’t know what I’ll do. I may just fly a dragon there and burn it to the ground. Depending on the mood of the day. In any case, whatever I gain, I share with you.”

“Considering I do the work…”

“And you’ll get a tenth of whatever I gain there, nothing more,” Jon declared, “That’s your fare in any campaign of mine that you join, except Meereen.”

“And here I thought you needed a fleet.”

Jon turned and began the walk to the door. “Your choice, Yara,” he said, as he turned from the door, “I won’t increase the payment. I do need a fleet, and I do need amicable relations with the Iron Islands, which is only possible if the Iron Islands somehow learns how to trade. Trade requires money, which you don’t have. You only have countless miserable men ready to mutiny. It’s your choice, stay as you are until they depose you, or join me, gain and learn. I didn’t only offer you a job, I offered you an alliance, be the navy Westeros needs and be paid, flourish, establish the relations you need with the kingdom, change perceptions about the Ironborn… It’s your choice, if you can see the far implications of that choice. Make it.”

With that, he nodded to the guard, and the door was opened in front of him.

The wooden bridge didn’t look even as much appealing as it did when he arrived, but two dragons still circled in the sky. One of them began the descent. He didn’t even need to call Rhaegal, the dragon knew. Rhaegal understood him.

“Jon,” he heard the call behind himself, just as he reached the middle of the bridge. He would never stop in the middle, he thought. By now everyone knew how the last Greyjoy king was returned to the Drowned God, he didn’t want to test Rhaegal’s reflexes – or meet his own Gods. They likely wouldn’t welcome him. There were no red priestesses to kiss life into him. He chuckled at the thought, wondering who held the record of being brought back from the dead for the most times by the fire worshippers. Somewhere he wondered if it was him, but if it wasn’t, he certainly killed the most red priestesses with a kiss. He had a deadly kiss. No wonder he was so shit with women.

He reached the end of the bridge, his mood considerably lightened by his own thoughts, and turned. Behind him, the men were already giving way dreadfully to the landing green dragon. Yara Greyjoy was following him, with Theon close behind.

“I won’t stop in the middle of the bridge,” Jon grinned. “I heard how dangerous that can be.”

“Don’t question our honour,” Yara scoffed.

“I don’t question your honour,” Jon remarked, “I question the honour of those who would like to see the Iron Islands return to their so-called former glory.”

Yara merely nodded with a smirk.

“I bet it didn’t take you long to see,” she said lowly.

“No, it didn’t.”

At that, she reached out her hand, her eyes scanning the clearing, the men who began to group in a circle large enough to be deemed safe from the dragon, not knowing just how effective and far-reaching dragonfire could be.

Jon just glanced at the hand.

“You know there’s a better way that raiding and raping,” he whispered. “You know that by our side there’s a chance of it.”

“I only don’t know whose side that is, exactly,” she said.

“Mine,” Jon said without hesitation, “And everyone else’s who chooses survival. Who dares to fight for it?”

She nodded, and Jon took her arm. A deal has been struck.

“Sail as soon as you can, we won’t have time and even if you sailed tomorrow, the battle may be fought long before you get there.”

“I take it your armies are in position.”

“In a few days,” Jon smirked, “I’ll know more when I joined them. But I can’t return to advise you, so you need to sail.”

Yara grinned. “The Iron Fleet is the fastest in the Seven Seas,” she declared, as Jon released her arm. She turned toward the men, “Have you heard me?! The Iron Fleet is the fastest of the Seven Seas! And there aren’t men better than the Ironborn to sail those ships! Our time of idleness is over, provision and prepare the fleet, we sail at first light.”

“To where?” A man asked.

“When I allied us with Daenerys Targaryen, we shook off the shackles of the Seven Kingdoms, and became equals. Now I allied us with Jon Targaryen, we shall build this kingdom to what it always should’ve been! We sail tomorrow, that’s all you need to know now, you’ll know where once we sailed.”

A grin formed in the corner of Jon’s mouth as he nodded to Yara, watching as the men departed. They couldn’t be described as particularly happy, but they certainly seemed relieved. There was something to do.

“Jon,” Yara called after him once more just as he reached Rhaegal.

“I don’t have time to keep turning around,” he remarked with a grin.

“I want you to understand,” she said sternly, “If you send us where you said you want to send us, and you don’t hold your end of the bargain… we will avenge it.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Jon grinned, “But don’t worry. You won’t be declaring war on anyone. I’ve done that when we burned that fleet, and even if not, by that time I’m certain we’ll be at war. It only depends on them if they will want to fight it.”

With that he turned and climbed atop Rhaegal. There was a long, cold journey ahead. As Rhaegal departed, he watched the men, circling around he could see the harbours beginning to buzz, dinghies were being loaded. There was no harbour for the ships themselves on the Iron Islands, only for dinghies to reach those ships anchored in open water. But judging by the commotion below, it was clear that for better or worse, the Iron Islands have joined the fray.

*****

 

She could feel it in her bones, their gaze cut that deep, as they watched, no, stared at her trembling fingers. They were all here. The Lord Hand, Tyrion Lannister with a face so solemn that one could read from it after a single glance, he’s expected attending a funeral. Lord Baelor and his wife, Desmera’s face perhaps the most hopeful, if not confused. Of course, she couldn’t fathom the gravity of the scene in front of her. Lord Redwyne, and of course both of his sons, eagerness on their face to see what the commotion was really about – no doubt their father foreshadowing the outcome before their arrival. Ser Jaime – that’s Lord Jaime – and Brienne of Tarth, the latter biting her lower lip as if trying desperately not to cry. That was an unusual sight, for sure. Beside them, in the corner stood Alys Karstark. The woman spoke so little, carried her head so high, Sansa never managed to muster the effort required to have a proper conversation with her. She was respectful with the best manners possible, but for all Sansa could tell, albeit they may have had past experiences of a similar nature, the effect of those experiences on them could not have been different. Lady Karstark seemed to have merely erased from her mind, and her life, all memories of a brutal husband. One that to top it, was also her kin, who wed her forcibly for her inheritance if the rumours are to be believed.

Suddenly Sansa wondered what the rumours said about her. She used to wonder about it a lot – especially before her little alone time at Greywater Watch, and the near-death experience escaping Greywater Watch. She couldn’t tell if she wondered about it since the day she’s told Howland Reed.

She looked around, as if trying to convince herself, but Howland Reed wasn’t in the room, and neither was his daughter Meera. The only other person walking in now was Ser Davos. Behind him, two men carried the chest, the flag she made still wrapped around it. Carefully, Davos removed the flag, and folded it, quite ceremoniously, before handing it to Sansa. Then just as carefully, the guards placed the chest on the table in front of her. She’s had to put the cup down now, she told herself, and forced herself to oblige.

She swallowed the sigh as she moved, her hands raising slowly to touch the buckle. She unbuckled it, then the other, and slowly lifted the lid, letting it fall backwards.

“What’s in it,” Redwyne asked, but she didn’t glance up. Perhaps she didn’t even hear it, or understand the words, as she slowly touched the fur. Fur of a cloak. Her fingers ran through it, before pushing it aside just slightly, taking care not to disturb the neat folding of it. Under it, linens, and she didn’t need to unfold them to know what they were. She pushed aside the fur just a little bit more, only to see the embroidery. A white direwolf, angry and proud, perhaps a little bobbled after so long a time of being in use, washed and washed again, but still white, it’s miniscule red eyes still shining through all the whiteness of the thread and the fabric.

“Get out,” she whispered, finally, half-meant as an answer, as her eyes found the boy who spoke. His face showed surprise, and even some defiance. She didn’t care, her glance met Baelor’s, only for a faction of a moment, before her eyes returned to the contents of the chest.

“Get. Out.” She hissed, her fingers clenching into the fur. Nobody moved.

“Get out!” She shouted, “All of you! Get out!”

Breathe, she told herself. Consciously controlling the intake of air, then she exhaled, and repeated, again and again while she listened to the shuffling of skirts and boots hitting the ground. Right until someone closed the door.

She looked around, but she was alone. They all obeyed, for once.

She finally let out that sigh as she dumped herself into the chair, a hand still buried in the furs. What an uncomfortable position, she told herself. She stood, wondering if she really wanted to see it again.

But she looked. She gently removed the cloak. Her fingers counted the folded pieces – all of them were here. Every shirt she’s ever made, ever since Winterfell, they were all here. Under them were more items, leathers, quilted and studded, more things she’s spent countless hours perfecting, pouring her love into. It felt as if it was all in different life, not the one she was living, and yet they were all here.

As if they wanted to blow up whatever connection there was still left to that other life, blowing away all the dreams and hopes that she realised in this moment were still there, buried, deep beyond the duties of a queen, the fight for survival, the promises made since and the problems she’s overcome.

Dreams of a girl, she thought. The girl was dead, a hundred thousand dead men came and killed her, and a silver-haired woman came and nailed her coffin, and before she was even laid to rest in the ground, everyone who she loved already turned away and left her behind for better prospects, adventures. She was forgotten.

Her fingers clenched into the soft linens, as she remembered. Sitting by the fireplace, the time she’s made the first, perhaps even the one she was clenching to now, and handed it to Jon. How carefree the scene was, as he laughed, in disbelief, in surprise, perhaps even in awe. She remembered what she thought as she watched him stripping off his old worn green shirt and put it on, but she didn’t want to recall that now.

A little white wolf for the white wolf.

She could almost hear his laughter in response, see how his eyes were shining. He was happy, she knew. She understood just how much it meant to him, what the gift represented – not her love, but her acceptance of him. The love, he didn’t know about that back then.

Sansa sank back into the chair, her fingers clenching into the furs, she pulled out the cloak. Slowly, she dragged it on herself as the winter breeze filled the room. It was warm. It smelled of fire, she looked but found no sign of it being burnt. But it smelled of fire, of… roast. Yes, that’s what it was.

She remembered what Lord Tyrion said – Jon was hiding in caves. They sent pigs in the caves and set them on fire, because pig fat burns at such high degree, as Tyrion explained, it’s used in castle sieges. Besieging armies dig tunnels and fill them with piglets. That’s when Sansa waved him to silence, but now she thought about it. The cloak wasn’t burnt, she looked again, but it didn’t fall victim of a fire.

No, it must’ve been something else. The emptiness she felt wanted to come to the fore. She stared at the chest, as if it could tell her otherwise. But then she gave in, she dug her face into the fur of the cloak and sobbed, loudly, letting it all out uncontrolled.

It felt the same way as it did standing on the pier, reading it off Ser Davos’ face. The world has just died, and it left a great black hole of emptiness in her soul.

****

“It was quite a speech.”

“I’m no fucking poet,” Humfrey shrugged, “Neither am I some kind of battle commander. Rally speeches aren’t my forte.”

“You told them to forget Jon,” Arya remarked. “Why?”

“Because he’s dead, remember?”

She merely looked at him.

“He’s sent Ser Davos, and Ser Davos must’ve arrived by now with all his clothing and that,” Humfrey explained, “He wants everyone to think him dead.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because he fears of spies, I presume,” Humfrey dumped himself on the camp bed in the small cabin. They weren’t sharing it; Arya was merely an intruder. She came and went as she liked, not bothering with manners or permission. It didn’t bother Humfrey, though. It would’ve bothered Baelor. And Garth. Arya’s every word would’ve bothered Garth. Humfrey chuckled at the thought. What an amusement that would’ve been, was it Garth in his place, having to spend the rest of his days with Arya Stark near… Garth would’ve never survived it, the daily roasting that Arya’s presence would’ve meant.

“What’s so funny?”

“I thought of Garth,” He said softly, “The fool he was, my brother. I loved him, but he was a fool. He should’ve stayed back from the battle, we told him, you know? He was no fighter. He wasn’t good at anything really.”

“Anything but whinging,” Arya said without a fickle of emotion, “Like Lord Cerwyn. We called him Whinging Cerwyn, he was just like your brother Garth.”

“Where’s Whinging Cerwyn?”

“Was at Greywater Watch,” she said as she finally dumped herself next to him. “Last I saw him he had half his face missing, the one eye he had was turned blue like ice. Then Rhaegal came and burned him.”

“It bothers you,” Humfrey whispered, seeing how she began fiddling with her hands, keenly watching her fingers as if she had some tedious task to complete that required concentration.

“Cerwyn doesn’t bother me,” she said. “When we were rescued, that bothers me. There was a man with us, a crannogman. Lord Reed’s close friend, his name was Micah. Micah Clay. He was already up on Rhaegal’s claw. And I wasn’t, I was defending an attack and another came and…” her voice chuckled.

“And?”

“He jumped. He jumped at them, so I could grab Edric’s hand and Edric pulled me up, and the dragon pulled up… and I watched him go under, they were all over him.”

“He sacrificed himself for you.”

“He shouldn’t have,” she whispered, “I would’ve…”

“You couldn’t have defeated them,” Humfrey said, “No one is invincible, even one called No One is not invincible. He could see what you couldn’t, because you were fighting.”

“He died.”

“Did you tell Lord Reed?”

“The Dragon Queen… Daenerys did. She saw it happen. You know what Lord Reed said?”

Humfrey shook his head.

“That it was better for Micah Clay,” Arya looked up at Humfrey, her eyes watery. Humfrey wondered if she was to cry. He never saw her cry, never even thought she could. “Because of his son, you see. His son was so smitten of Sansa, like a little pup followed her everywhere, guarded her door at night. He… he was killed, and dead Mikken wasn’t so smitten of Sansa, tried to kill her. When Lord Reed heard it, he said Micah Clay would’ve never survived that. It was better for him to go, too, that’s what he said.”

“Lord Reed also lost a son, I heard.”

“His name was Jojen, he was his only son… Jojen and Meera Reed saved Bran beyond the wall. He died for it.”

“Lord Reed gave a lot for you Starks.”

“What’s that to mean,” Arya asked, fury flickering through her eyes.

“He’s loyal,” Humfrey said, “That’s what it means, Arya. Micah Clay was loyal, too. It’s something I always admired about you northerners; down south loyalty is as fickle as changing one’s socks. But in the North… Loyalty is still alive in the North.”

“If only the North were alive, too.”

“It’s winter,” Humfrey said nonchalantly, “By spring the dead will rot away, if there’s any left in those lands, I doubt it. I think they all marched south. Your keeps may be in need of repair but your lands are there. Once the people return to them, they can work them, begin again.”

“You already speak like a King in the North.”

“I don’t,” Humfrey whispered, “I hope I don’t. I never wanted to be King of anything. And I want it even less so now.”

“Why is that?”

“Look at Jon,” Humfrey said. “I remember when I first saw him, Gods he was glorious. He was covered in blood, and dirt, with a freaking huge cut on his chest, and his hair all muddy sticking to his face but he looked more regal than if sitting on the Iron Throne covered in silks with a crown on his head. But look at what he carries. I don’t want that. It’d break me.”

“So there is something that can break you.”

“I’m serious,” Humfrey sighed. “I remember my father’s endless lessons to Baelor about the Lord’s responsibilities; it was tedious even then. I was glad to be able to dismiss it even then.”

“Well, you better man up,” Arya said, “My people don’t take kindly to outsiders and you are an outsider. Whomever is left alive will be whinging about you until the end of your days.”

Humfrey chuckled.

“Jon didn’t consent.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

“No, he doesn’t have to,” Humfrey remarked, “But if Hightower wants to maintain good relations with the Targaryens, then Hightower waits for their consent to a marriage like that. Meaning, Baelor will, he wants to remain in Jon’s good graces. And he needs to breed, he thinks that’s behind the delay. My being heir to Highgarden.”

“Jon’s good graces,” Arya raised an eyebrow, “Not his aunt’s.”

“I don’t think it matters,” Humfrey explained, “But Daenerys clearly does what Jon tells her to do. I doubt there was anything she instructed on her own, I think it was all Jon’s doing. I think Jon is the ruler of the Kingdoms, not Daenerys.”

“Treasonous words.”

“Simply the truth,” Humfrey shrugged, “The way I see it, at least.”

“Still,” Arya shrugged, “You better prepare. Jon gave his word to Sansa; he’ll consent when he returns.”

“How’d you know?”

“He told me,” Arya said.

“That surprises me.”

“Why,” Arya gave Humfrey a cheeky glance.

“I am no fool, Arya,” Humfrey whispered. “He wears a ribbon on his wrist. It’s your sister’s favour, isn’t it? Of course, I know nothing more, but I don’t need to be told to know this much. He never speaks of her, and that tells more than any talk would.”

Arya let out a deep breath. “This is going to be complicated.”

“Not really,” Humfrey smiled, “Like I said, I never wanted to be king.”

“Not that, you fool,” Arya laughed, “I have a task for you. Well, Jon has, he tasked me, but seeing I cannot carry it out, you have to.”

“What is it?”

“Tell Sansa he’s alive,” Arya whispered, “Just Sansa, no one else.”

“I would think Ser Davos will do that,” Humfrey remarked, “He wasn’t happy at all about his mission.”

“But he gave his word,” Arya reasoned, “Ser Davos is an honest man, he will keep his word.”

“It’s rather… stupid. First send Ser Davos, raise panic with the news, then send you, to say it’s only a ruse.”

“Only Sansa,” Arya repeated, “No one else.”

Humfrey sighed. “Because he wears her favour still.”

“That, I don’t know,” Arya declared, “I really don’t.”

“Was there anything…” Humfrey began, “I mean, I need to know, considering my position and where we are sailing, was there anything between them?”

Arya laughed. “Have you ever seen Jon with any of them Lyseni whores?”

“No,” Humfrey shook his head, “If Griff is right, he didn’t even touch Myra.”

“There’s your answer,” Arya laughed, “Jon is not like that. Like you lot. He doesn’t do that.”

“You lot,” Humfrey remarked, “That includes you as well.”

“Is that so?”

“Let’s see,” Humfrey grinned, “Tall, silver-haired, goes by the name of… I forgot the name.”

“Nyessaro,” Arya shrugged. “Don’t judge, just think of Liese.”

“Liese is the redhead,” Humfrey laughed, “I didn’t have the redhead. Why do all of you think I went for the redhead?”

Arya laughed with him.

“So, you want me to tell the Queen and my betrothed that the man she gave her favour to is still alive,” Humfrey summed up once their laughter calmed.

“I told you, it’s complicated.”

“Aye, it is.”

“You already speak like a Northerner.”

“I’ll never be a Northerner, Arya,” Humfrey said lowly, “I’m an outsider, like you said. If I was a Northerner, I’d look at myself and think, who’s this southern lordling thinking he’s somebody. Fancy name clenching for power over the North.”

“You do get us Northerners.”

“That’s the thing,” Humfrey shrugged, “Besides, once I tell her, what then? It’s a fucking mess, and it’s not even half of it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, perhaps I have my own reservations about this mess,” Humfrey declared, “Perhaps I can think for myself, perhaps I also have a heart and perhaps, just perhaps, I didn’t intend my life to become that.”

“You never said you didn’t…”

“I did, Arya,” Humfrey’s eyes were stern, as they rested on her, “I told you three times at the least, just now. I don’t want to be king of anything, a foreign land where the people despise me, by the side of a Queen who would’ve chosen someone else, and I would’ve chosen someone else, and perhaps a different life… It’s just a mess.”

“Why didn’t you tell Jon? Or your brother?”

“Because with the name comes duty, Arya,” Humfrey said bitterly, “It’s not just a fancy name. It’s responsibility, like yours is and Jon’s and every fucking lord’s anywhere. There’s a responsibility to further that name that survived through centuries, if not thousands of years, whatever that name is. And to further it, one has to do what is good for the name, the house. My brother wanted an alliance, he’s my liege. I obey.”

Arya nodded.

“She’s beautiful, your sister,” Humfrey whispered then. “Gods, she’s more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. But her eyes are like ice.”

“You don’t know…”

“I heard stories,” Humfrey interrupted, “About the Bolton, but also about her. How she cares for her people. No doubt she accepted Baelor’s offer for her people, it’s obvious. Her decision had nothing to do with me, in truth I think she knew as soon as she laid eyes on me. She knew because she’s smart, she figured it out. I hear she has a good heart. Now put aside what I think of her and this… alliance, what could she think? Two husbands she didn’t chose, one had a family that murdered her own, the other did his best to… whatever the intention could be for such atrocities that I heard of. She gave her favour to someone and she’s now set to marry yet another man who she didn’t chose.”

“You’re not like Ramsay Bolton.”

“Thank the Gods,” Humfrey sighed, “I hope I’ll never have even an inch of that in me. But that doesn’t make it fairer.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Arya whispered.

“No, if it was, we’d all be able to do what we wanted,” Humfrey smiled, “And it would be a catastrophe like no other. Because no two man wants the same thing. I suppose by now we all would have become blue eyed corpses slowly rotting away in the service of the Night King. But hey, at least we got what we all wanted before we got killed for our stupidity and greed.”

“In truth, you’d make a good King… or Lord.”

“Doubtful,” Humfrey grinned, “All I’d want is hunting and jousting, and sleep till the sun is high up on the sky, because I’d not want to spend my nights with sleeping. Soon I’d become a poor lord who gambled all his wealth away.”

“No,” Arya shook his head, “That’s not you.”

“No?”

“No,” She repeated, “You’re far better than that. Better than any of them. Even your brother.”

Humfrey didn’t answer for a long moment. He didn’t know what to say at first.

“So I’m not so useless after all,” he smiled at her.

“No, you’re not,” she said, once more fiddling with her hands.

“Well, you’re not so unbearable either,” he smiled.

“I was never unbearable,” she scoffed.

“Oh but you were,” Humfrey laughed, “Your endless scoffing, and your endless I-know-better-than-you preachings, and your endless talk of valar morghulis you’re no one… bla bla bla.”

She turned and slapped but he caught her hand.

“You became predictable, Arya Stark,” he grinned as he released her hand. He sat up, closer to her.

“Once this mess is all over, what will you do?”

Arya wondered about her answer for a moment. “I don’t know. I thought I’d sail West, see what’s west of Westeros. I don’t think I want that anymore.”

“Had enough adventure then?”

“Perhaps,” she said, her face serious. “But I don’t want to stay in Winterfell either. I mean… It’s Sansa’s, she’s Queen, I’m clearly not as good with obeying as you are.”

“That sounded like, Humfrey you can be a servant husband to my sister, but I cannot be a good servant.”

“It’s not what I meant,” she said, “Not how I meant it. I’m just not good with obeying anyone. And I don’t think I’d be needed there once you wed her.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I had an idea,” she said then, “But I don’t think it’ll happen.”

“What idea?”

“The Eyrie,” she explained.

“It doesn’t belong to the Starks, Arya,” Humfrey declared, “You won’t inherit it just like that.”

“Sansa said we might.”

“Aye, and Jon said that too,” Humfrey said, “But in truth, it’d take a lengthy line of succession to get to you. The Arryns ruled the Eyrie for centuries, if Robyn Arryn is dead, Jon has to look into living relatives.”

“The Eyrie was overrun by the dead, Humfrey,” Arya declared.

“True,” he said, “But there may be relatives elsewhere. Nothing’s as easy as it sounds. Jon made the right decision about it, when he said they have to look into it.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“In the Eyrie?”

She nodded.

“Once, when I was little,” Humfrey said, “My father sent Baelor and I on trade ships, he said we have to learn. So we sailed to different ports in Westeros, and that’s how I went there. It was marvellous, but it felt a bit odd. Lord Arryn and his family weren’t there, they lived in Kings Landing, Bronze Royce was castellan. Good man, had us joust and gave us some lessons how to better ourselves.”

“There’s a big hole in the middle of the throne hall,” Arya remarked.

“I’ve seen,” Humfrey nodded, “When Lord Royce showed us the castle. The Moondoor they call it, that’s how they execute people, they throw them down the Moondoor, and the fall kills them. Their cells are also like that… there’s no outer wall. It’s quite scary.”

“Lady Arryn wanted to throw Sansa through the Moondoor once,” Arya remarked, “She’s told me.”

“Why?”

“Fucking Littlefinger.”

Humfrey’s eyes grew wide.

“Not like that, you idiot,” Arya laughed, “I was just cursing. Lady Arryn loved Littlefinger, the Gods know why or how, but she wasn’t sane, so I suppose that’s why. She’s got jealous of Sansa. In the end Littlefinger threw her through the Moondoor.”

“You know what I liked about the Eyrie,” Humfrey asked, to change the topic. She looked up, questioning.

“There’s one road, a single path, one has to walk the last of it on foot, if they want to enter,” he said, “No army can do that. It’s as impregnable as a castle can be.”

She stood.

“And so it ends,” Humfrey grinned, “Arya Stark thought of it and came into my cabin, and now Arya Stark think she’ll leave, like that.”

She smiled, “Because Arya Stark does what she wants.”

“A luxurious thing, that is.”

“Will you do as I asked?”

“Telling your sister? Where will you be?”

“I won’t disembark with you,” Arya said, “I won’t disembark at all.”

“No, the old lady will,” Humfrey smiled and she nodded.

“It’s better this way,” she said, “I want to find out what’s going on. I can’t do that if I declare my presence. They know me.”

“The Faceless, you mean.” She nodded.

“Your sister would surely love to see you, though.”

“I’ll come to her, when it’s time,” she shrugged. “Will you tell her?”

Humfrey let out a deep sigh, before he nodded.

“Good,” she said, making her way to the cabin door.

“Arya,” he called out and she turned.

“Will you come to me, as well?”

She smiled, at the question, at Humfrey’s smile. At how it all made her feel.

“Perhaps I will,” she gave him a slight grin, “I told you, someone needs to chaperone you lot. Especially you, Humfrey Hightower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2020 everyone! Hope you'll have a wonderful, happy and prosperous year :)
> 
> On a different note - If you play winter is coming, I'm in Kingdom 112, one of the newly opened servers/kingdoms. I'm leading an alliance of 'Northern Wolves'. If you play I'd love to have you in my alliance- if you need to know how to relocate / or how to begin playing and locate there - ask in the comments and I'll respond ;)


	97. Bhorash I.

Bhorash certainly didn’t look like the shithole Edric remembered it to be. In fact, it looked rather odd. On one hand, it was made odd by the many slaves wandering the streets. Former slaves. Which is why they were allowed to freely wander on the streets, Edric reminded himself.

He looked behind as he reached the end of the pier, but Myra was nowhere to be seen. The girl was smart, Edric chuckled to himself. She didn’t alight with him, she kept up the appearance of knowing nothing about him at all.

Oh she knew a lot about him, actually. She didn’t know his name, still, where he was born and raised and what moved him – apart from the things that moved him that were hidden under her clothing. She knew a lot about that. She gave Edric an indeed very pleasant few days during this journey. Edric found himself wondering if he returned that favour. Then wondering about why he was wondering about it, why he cared. Here of all places.

He needed to be sharp. He looked around, as he reached the main street, and ahead but apart from even more soldiers, he saw nothing. That was the other thing that made Bhorash quite odd – it looked more of a military outpost than a trading post. Edric stood still, studying the men. Some wore their long hair in a manbun, wore leather armour and carried curved swords not dissimilar to Dothraki arakhs. The Windblown.

“Edric Snow.”

Edric turned and laughed aloud at the sight.

“I was just cursing at the sight of the Windblown,” he declared.

“Why, are you not glad you’re not alone in this accursed place?”

“I didn’t expect to be alone in this accursed place,” Edric grinned, “In fact, I would’ve been disappointed if I didn’t find you here. Where are the rags, though?”

“Ditched for the time being,” the man shrugged.

“A tattered prince, without the tatters,” Edric remarked, raising an eyebrow as he studied the man’s face. “One would think you would prefer to remain unseen.”

“And one would think well of it,” the man shrugged, “But it matters little. You’re the big attraction here, Snow, not me. I hear we’ll be provided plenty of shade by white wolf banners. If they arrive.”

At hearing that, Edric narrowed his eyes.

“I thought they’d be here by now,” he declared, “What’s the delay?”

“How would I know,” the man shrugged once more, “They’re not my fucking ten thousand.”

“But you do know,” Edric said nonchalantly, “You have your people, I am well aware. You know more about where my ten thousand is than I do. Have they passed Volantis?”

“Four days ago,” the man grinned, “There’s been a storm. Perhaps they stopped to wait it out.”

Edric recalled the winds of that storm it lasted for hours. He spent that time in bed with Myra laughing about the prospects of fucking themselves to death if the ship sunk.

“I trust your journey wasn’t too tedious,” the man recalled him from his thoughts, “Seeing that you opted for a ship. Why is that?”

“I had some business to sort.”

“Some business in…”

“Fuck you, you know very well.”

“Myr.”

“Yes, Myr,” Edric scoffed, “Where’s that fucking Dornish. There’s no point in telling you anything, you know more than I do. The man said he’ll be here.”

“He’s here,” the man reached out an arm, indicating to Edric the other way he almost intended to take. “He’s looking forward to see you again. He said so himself, he said he’s looking forward to figure out what choice you’ve made.”

*****

 

“My Lord,” Humfrey turned toward the voice that disturbed his thoughts inspired by the sight of the shoreline emerging in the far horizon.

“Keat,” he smiled, recognising the man, and the man nodded gladly at the recognition. Behind him stood some women, and among them, the old one, the one who sold them tapestries.

Keat handed him a bundle.

“What is this?”

“The little girl asked for a flag,” Keat explained, “Came to us and said, we need a friendly flag if we want to be welcomed.”

“And you made one,” Humfrey grinned toward the women, “I can’t wait to find out what kind of flag you made.”

He waived to the two sailors nearby, “Change the flag,” he handed them the bundle. The men obeyed swiftly getting to work.

“There was only one kind of flag to make,” a woman said then.

“Only one kind?” Humfrey raised an eyebrow, “I am sure there are many flags that those good old Hightower guards would deem friendly.

“I am sure, too,” Keat nodded, “We could have made one with the flaming tower. They’d recognise that, for sure. But there’s only one flag for us.”

Humfrey looked around at their faces. Gods, Jaime Lannister you better be in this fucking camp, he told himself, seeing the pride sitting on the faces of the women, and of Keat. The flag just began its journey up high, and Humfrey laughed at the sight as it caught the wind, no longer looking like a piece of crimson cloth. No, a lion emerged, a proud lion golden lion just as Humfrey expected. Now it soared in the wind, declaring to the world that the people of Lannisport were coming home.

“You say Lannister fought these dead men,” Keat said lowly beside him.

“Aye, they did,” Humfrey nodded, “Long before Hightower did. From the start, really. Your Lord defied his own sister to fight the dead, I heard. Got wounded under Kings Landing where I fought. If we are lucky, he’ll be in the camp.”

“If we get less lucky,” Keat grinned, “We’ll be greeted by the Imp.”

Humfrey chuckled, “The Lord Hand, you meant to say, my friend.”

“Whatever,” Keat laughed, “We’ll be home.”

“I want you to alight with me,” Humfrey said then, “One of you should, and you could speak well for your people. The rest will wait until the ship is allowed into port.”

“They don’t expect us,” Keat remarked lowly.

“They don’t know you’re alive,” Humfrey corrected, “And so, first we tell them who’s on this ship. That flag will get us that, and then, then you’ll all be home once more.”

*****

 

“A Lannister flag,” Arya shrugged, “How original.”

“They’re lion folk, Arya,” Humfrey gave him a forgiving smile.

“If I was them,” Arya began, “I would’ve come up my own sigil. Like, who cares who was my Lord before they came, they came and half the lords of Westeros are dead anyway, and kingdoms are empty – I’d go and take one of them keeps and have my sigil.”

“You speak of conquest.”

“No, I speak of…” She thought hard about what the right word would be. “Advancement, I guess. Making the most of the opportunities that one has.”

“And tell me, once the Targaryens return and spring comes, what will you do with your castle when kingdoms emerge around you? When the dragons come to claim what is theirs?”

“Jon would never…”

“You corrected me last night,” Humfrey chuckled, “Daenerys is Queen.”

“And you corrected me last night,” Arya grinned, “That Jon is the ruler, not her.”

Humfrey sighed.

“I know why they did it,” he said softly.

“Enlighten me.”

“They were proud,” Humfrey smiled at her, “I suppose all their life they despised the fucking goldenheads, and then the dead came, and they had to leave everything behind, and survive in a foreign land… until we show up and tell them, your lord tried to prevent it, he fought them, all the way from the Wall to Kings Landing he fought them. They were proud for once in their lives to be Lannister folk. That’s why they did it. That’s who they are and for once they were fine with being who they are. They learned what else is out there.”

Arya nodded, for a moment not saying a word.

“Are you proud of who you are,” she asked then, as she turned away from the porthole. Outside, one could now clearly see the guards on land, and they were clearly agitated by the sight of the ship. Arya watched a rider depart. She knew, they entered the bay. So far so good, no one tried to stop them yet.

“What kind of question is that,” Humfrey asked, “I am a Hightower.”

“Yea, fancy name, responsibilities, you went on about it quite lengthily last night,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I mean you. The man you are.”

“Well for once you consider calling me a man,” Humfrey chuckled. He was pulling a chest from under the small table by the side, and placed it on the table. “I’d say that is something to be proud of. Was damn hard work to win it.”

“Did you want to win it?”

He didn’t glance up from the task, neatly folding some linens.

“Perhaps I did,” he said, “I didn’t decide, I want to win it. But I guess I wanted to.”

“Because I’m Sansa’s sister,” she remarked, “You fold them linens neater than my old septa.”

“I was taught by a better septon than your old septa, then,” He said before he looked up. “Your name means nothing to me, Arya.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You say, if I wanted to win your approval that is because you are your sister’s sister…” he shrugged, “Everything ends with that. I am Queen Sansa’s betrothed; you are her sister. For you, everything leads to that.”

“You can’t say it’s not true, though.”

He dropped the linens into the chest and looked up.

“What does it matter?”

“What do you mean, what does it matter?”

“You are her sister, I am her betrothed,” He said, “Does that really define either of us? I don’t think so.”

“It’s pretty important.”

Humfrey sighed. “Depends.”

“Depends?”

“Yes, Arya, depends,” he said, as if getting annoyed. “You’re fucking beating around the bush.”

“I think you’re the one beating around the bush.”

He closed the chest and locked it.

“Fine,” he said suddenly. “Let’s pretend that we are not who we are.”

“We are who we are.”

“Yes, but let’s pretend for a moment that we are not,” he said. “What do you want, Arya? Why do you keep galivanting in and out of my cabin as if it was your own?”

“I am not galivanting,” She scoffed, “I wanted company. One that can be talked to, which today you clearly are not.”

She moved toward the door, but Humfrey reached out and grabbed her hand. She wanted to protest, to declare some elaborate curse. She didn’t. She forgot it when she looked up at him.

He looked into her eyes for a moment, perhaps waiting for that curse to break free. When it didn’t, he leaned down and kissed her. Just a little, barely brushing her lips.

“What the…”

“There, killed the moment,” Humfrey chuckled. “I answered my own question, that is all.”

“You had no right to…”

“And I didn’t get slapped for it, either,” he said, as he let go of her hand, reaching for his cloak. As he wrapped it around his shoulder, she just stood there, wondering how to process what just happened. He buckled the cloak, before he looked up, clearly surprised that she still stood there.

“And you didn’t run away, either,” he said. “I needed to know, Arya.”

“For what,” she hissed, “What is the point?! We are who we are, Humfrey. Name, duty, responsibility, like you said. You obey, that is what you said.”

She left.

*****

 

The winds were kind today. They didn’t bite against the skin, indeed even the sun made an appearance, no matter how little effect it had on the temperature.

Dany pulled the furs tighter around herself. She listened to the nearing steps; her eyes fixed on the horizon. She recognised the steps, they didn’t require her to hide, to put on the queenly mask and settle in that rocking chair that served as her hiding place. Sitting in that chair, simple as it was, felt more than she imagined sitting on the Iron Throne ever could – it meant protection at a whole different level. It meant being untouchable, no matter how untrue that was, once she thought about it. It meant doing what she could to protect.

“Something will happen,” she said softly, “I can feel it.”

No response came, and she glanced aside, at Missandei. She’s brought warm water in a bowl for her feet.

“You look after me so well,” Dany said smiling, “I wonder if your loyalty ever wavered.”

“Never,” the girl said in that coarse voice of hers, the result of inhaling all that smoke, burning her throat amidst the fire in Kings Landing just as she’s burned a good proportion of her body as well. Dany could see it, though her curly hair hid the scars, once one looked closer, they were there. On the side of her face, on her neck and more hidden under her robes. She wore long robes, she began to favour grainsack-like maester robes, tied on her waist with a belt to hold the dagger she now carried. It made Dany wonder if she knew how to use it. If she would be better with beginning to carry one herself. She settled in her rocking chair.

“The dragons,” the girl asked then, as she began to take off her sheepskin slippers and wash her feet. The water felt soothing, its warmth filled Dany slowly.

“I don’t know,” Dany said with a sigh. “I can’t feel them anymore. They must be far away.”

“Perhaps recall them,” Missandei suggested without looking up.

“I cannot. I don’t feel them, I cannot recall them.”

She took a deep breath, and exhaled.

“Perhaps it was wrong,” she said, “I was too harsh. Perhaps considering the circumstances, I should’ve abandoned this plan.”

“What is the plan?”

“I don’t know yet,” Dany gave Missandei a warm smile, “I just know something is coming. I know those who opposed me in Westeros are coming. I don’t know how.”

“Why here then,” Missandei asked.

“You never asked me that before,” Dany said softly, “I know you didn’t like it there. There wasn’t much to like, war and more war… I wanted to bring you back. But that’s not why.”

“Then why,” she asked again.

“Because they want me,” she sighed, “They could’ve killed me, and they didn’t. They want me, and if I am there… look at what happened. They sacrificed…” she didn’t finish the sentence. It was too painful to speak of, and she could see on Missandei’s face, she clearly understood, shared the pain. Even more so, if she thought of her own loss.

“It’s better here,” Dany said then. “Let them come. They will come, and then at least I will know who my enemy is. If I know the enemy, I can defeat it.”

“Thought Jon…” Missandei began, but swallowed. She didn’t speak lengthy sentences anymore; they were painful for her dry throat. “He went to find out,” she finished her sentence.

“He did,” Dany smiled, “But he’s had other things. And they want him dead. I can’t allow that to happen. This world needs Jon.”

“This world… needs you.”

“Something tells me, there’s no option in this that has both of us.”

“But…”

Dany reached out, put her pointing finger on Missandei’s lips, not to speak.

“Let’s not speak of it. We have time still, and if I am right, Jon won’t sit idle either.”

“You think?”

“I think he’s looking,” Dany nodded, “He’s trying to find them. So, you see, it’s good we are here. We shall lure them out of the shadows. Then Jon will find them.”

*****

The shoreline neared, but there wasn’t a big welcome party. Mainly Hightower soldiers lined the pier. Humfrey narrowed his eyes to see if anyone came out of the keep, amusing himself that no matter how he tried, he won’t be able to see the Imp among all them soldiers.

Finally, the two sailors grabbed the ropes thrown, and began to pull the dingy to pier. Humfrey took a deep breath. In mere seconds he’ll be once more on Westerosi soil. Home. He didn’t want to come home, he knew well that it meant nothing good.

There he was, the Hand standing at the end of the pier, he could see as he stepped out of the dingy, just as he could see the Hand hastily rushing talk to a soldier, the soldier hastily jumping on a horse and galloping away. Soon, Baelor will learn of his arrival.

He waited for Keat and the two women to alight. He still couldn’t see the reason why the women were here, but Keat insisted.

“Why are they here again,” he asked now.

“They’ll vouch for the lionfolk.”

“I asked you to vouch for the lionfolk,” Humfrey said sternly.

“You did, my lord,” Keat grinned, “But you never asked. I am not of Lannisport.”

“What…”

“I told you I worked a ship before, my ship wasn’t ready to cut loose so I jumped on Maerreo’s. Not proud of it, but here I am.”

Humfrey nodded at this rather insignificant detail. True, he never asked if any of these people were indeed not lionfolk, as they now called themselves.

Finally, the women stood next to him, and so their little group began the long walk on the pier toward the Hand.

“Tyrion Lannister has changed,” a woman said next to Humfrey.

“We all have,” the other replied. They made Humfrey smile to himself.

 

“Lord Hightower,” Tyrion called out just as Humfrey took the last few steps to him. “What a nice surprise.”

“Is it,” Humfrey asked, “Besides, you know better than that, Lord Hand. I am not Lord Hightower.”

“No, I’ve sent for Lord Hightower as soon as I saw you step on the pier,” Tyrion nodded with a smile, “He’ll be indeed pleased to see his brother return.”

“Then send another for your brother, as well,” Humfrey replied, “You could see the flag and yet the Lord of Casterly Rock is not here.”

“The flag,” Tyrion remarked, “I meant to ask about the flag.”

“We are from Lannisport,” a woman spoke but Humfrey raised his hand to silence her.

“There are about a hundred of your folk on the ship, hence the golden lion on the flag. The captain is Essosi, his ship was docked in harbour when the dead ran over Lannisport, he’s made it out to sea then picked up the survivors as he could. Those who managed to get into a dingy. Dropped his cargo to do so, mind you, and so he’s not really an Essosi anymore, he and his folk are in flight with us. Your folk survived in Braavos till now, and so we thought, since we flee Braavos, we take them home with us.”

Tyrion nodded, his eyes on Humfrey’s companions. Then he waived over a Lannister man, and merely nodded. The man did like the one before him, ran and jumped on the back of a horse, galloping away toward the keep. Passing the small posse nearing the harbour. Humfrey could already see Baelor Hightower among them. The flag of Hightower dancing in the wind.

“I trust you have more to report,” Tyrion said then, also turning toward the approaching group.

“I don’t report to you, Lord Hand,” Humfrey said, without looking at the man who spoke to, his eyes fixed on Baelor Hightower. The joy of reunion began to take over him, as he watched Baelor dismount as fast as his age and shape allowed to, rushing toward him with arms open wide. His lips formed a wide grin as he accepted the hug.

“What an unexpected joy,” Baelor laughed. “What brought you home? Alone?”

“Brought home the lionfolk that escaped Lannisport,” Humfrey explained once more, “They lingered in Braavos. There’s a captain there, a good man who saved them, and his family. I told him to report to you for work, his name is Maerreo.”

Baelor merely nodded, “That is all?”

“That is all to say, for now. I need to see the Queen.”

“That, is not possible,” Tyrion pointed out, eyebrow raised. “Unless her tender feelings for you make her change her mind, she wants to see no one.”

“It’s true,” Baelor said sadly, “Since Ser Davos brought news…”

“That is why I need to speak with her,” Humfrey interrupted, “It cannot wait.”

“I say it can,” Tyrion Lannister declared, “Whatever news you bring, we all need clarity. A council meeting must come first.”

Humfrey raised an eyebrow, questioningly looking at Baelor, but his brother only nodded.

“Fine,” he said, “Though I warn you, the Queen won’t be happy about the delay, once I’ve spoken to her.”

*****

 

She settled on the throne, and pulled the furs tight around her, just as Missandei arranged her blankets. She gave the girl a questioning look, but she nodded with a smile. It will do.

“I told you, something is coming,” Dany whispered, and Missandei nodded once more, with a much more serious face this time.

Taking a deep breath, Dany waved for the guards to open the door to her throne room. Her pyramid, in her city – her throne room, she reminded herself.

“Your grace,” Daario Naharis stepped in, with two men in tow. Unwillingly Dany tilted her head sideways a little, as she studied the men. They were Westerosi, or at least one of them was.

“Your grace, may I introduce you to Quentyn Martell.”

Dany allowed herself a wide smile.

“The heir to Dorne,” she declared, and the middle aged of the two men bowed deeply, returning her smile.

“No lengthy declaration of your titles?” Daario asked, and Dany raised her hand toward him.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, “If Lord – forgive me, Prince Quentyn is here, he knows full well whom he sought audience with. Your title… it is Prince, is it not?”

“It is, your grace,” Quentyn Martell spoke, “Albeit I am yet to claim my inheritance.”

“In that case you should not be here in Meereen,” Dany said sternly, “But claim that inheritance. There’s been a war, have you not heard? Dorne has been spared, the Kingdom relies on those lands to aid the rest.”

“No beating around the bush, then,” Quentyn remarked.

“We can discuss your title further,” Dany remarked sharply, “It is Prince as granted by my ancestors, by Daeron, First of his Name, when he entered a double marriage alliance with Dorne. And as part of that alliance, Dorne submitted to Targaryen rule in perpetuity. So, you can see the reason why I am surprised to see you here, and not in Dorne, arranging supply routes north.”

“How much you know of Dornish, your grace,” Quentin asked then.

“Precious little,” Dany shrugged, “But I know this. Your brother was despised by your people. The daughters of your other brother killed his son. I know that. Dorne allied itself with me long before I won Westeros. Long before the war against the dead.”

“We are strong willed folk,” Quentin declared.

“That means nothing,” Dany countered, “Dorne is part of the Southern Kingdom and as such, you should sail home at once and begin the good work to aid the northern lands of the kingdom.”

“Southern Kingdom,” Quentyn grinned, “Because the North broke free. Forgive me, it didn’t need breaking, your so-called nephew granted it independence.”

“My nephew,” Dany fought the urge to stand as she spoke, the game of words quickly began to annoy her. “My nephew won independence for the North before my arrival in Westeros, you may want to check your facts, Prince Quentyn. That Independence has been confirmed the first time I set on Westerosi soil, and I was yet to claim the Iron Throne from the usurper Cersei Lannister. As such, the North is an independent kingdom.”

“Until your dragons conquer it,” Quentyn grinned.

“And why would they do such a thing,” Dany asked.

“Why not?”

“Perhaps because there’s been enough bloodshed, Prince Quentyn,” Dany scoffed, “If you were there, defending your homeland, your own liege during the worst war imaginable, you would see that yourself. Working together doesn’t begin with conquering each other.”

“Wise words,” Prince Quentyn nodded, “You have a sharp mind. It is true, I was not there, I didn’t fight in this… war against the dead. To my defense, word didn’t travel fast to Norvos where I lived these past twenty years, your grace.”

“Norvos?”

“Indeed,” Quentyn remarked, “You see, I was youngest. I wed a Norvosi instead of waiting for something that didn’t look to come my way.”

“I see,” Daenerys remarked, “I heard you have a daughter.”

“Indeed,” Quentyn smiled a proud smile, “Arianne. Strong willed and stubborn, and beautiful like all Dornish girls.”

“Perhaps one day, you shall introduce her to me.”

“I certainly shall do so, your grace,” Quentyn remarked, “Because I agree, we ought to work together. Which is why I am here, and not in Dorne. You are not in Westeros either, so if one wishes to treat with the Queen, this is the place to be.”

“And how’d you learned of my presence here?” Dany asked, keenly watching the man. There it was, barely visible, only for a split second, but she caught it. The glance that gave away the source.

“That doesn’t matter,” Quentyn said as he stood straighter, his face turning serious. “Let’s work together. I have an offer for you.”

“Wait, I know this,” Dany gave the man a wide smile. “You offer your hand in marriage. Albeit, you just proclaimed yourself to be already wed.”

Quentyn Martell raised his eyebrows. “And widowed. Am I that obvious?”

“I have good advisors, Prince Quentyn,” Dany explained, “So does my nephew. We expected your offer.”

You… both expected my offer?”

“Indeed we did,” Dany remarked, “I may know little of the Dornish, but I know this much. You are ambitious folk. It was only a matter of time for you to show up and declare your intention to become king.”

“And so, you accept?”

“Why would I do that?” Dany laughed. “I said, I expected the offer. I expect others as well. In the end, Prince Quentyn, why marry a man who I know little of, when there are suitors who fought and bled by my side, and have proven their loyalty thus.”

“Like who?”

“Let’s see,” Dany remarked, “Lord Baelor Hightower, Lord Paramount of the Reach.”

“Is wed to Desmera Redwyne.”

“Has two younger brothers. More my age.”

“One of them is dead, the other is betrothed to the Queen in the North.”

“Lord Edmure Tully?”

“Wed to a Frey.”

“Lord Robyn Arryn, though I hear he’s a few years younger than me.”

“I hear he’s dead, and House Arryn with him.”

“Willas Tyrell.”

“A cripple and a mute.”

“Lord Redwyne’s sons, what’s their name? Horas and Hobber, yes.”

“Way below you, your race, considering Redwyne had been accused of treason.”

“And what’s better to ensure there’ll be no more of that, than marriage?”

“Who else? Or have you set your heart on a Redwyne?”

Dany shrugged. “Edric Dayne.”

At that, the man who accompanied Prince Quentyn laughed aloud, “That will never happen.”

“Oh he can speak,” Dany remarked sarcastically, “Your companion.”

“He will speak no more,” Quentyn hissed, “So far you’ve not listed anyone who’s proven to be a better option than me, your grace. Starfall owes fealty to Sunspear, I remind you.”

“Fine.” Dany declared, “Jon Targaryen.”

Daario Naharis’ eyes settled on her in an instant, as she studied Quentyn Martell’s face once more.

“You could wait until the end of your days for that, your grace.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Dany asked, “You can’t deny it, marrying my nephew is the best option. I am a Targaryen. We preserve our dragonblood.”

“Well,” Quentyn glanced down on his boots, “I see you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“The talk of all Essos, your grace,” Quentyn said, “I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news to you.”

“But here you are, so speak up.”

Quentyn’s eyes met hers. They were cold, Dany thought. No, this man intended to bring bad news. This was not a mere audience, she realised.

“Your nephew is dead, your grace,” Quentyn declared.

For a moment, Dany felt the room spinning, as she swallowed.

“Dead,” she repeated, “Have you learned of that the way you learned of all those other lords?”

“I said it’s the talk of all Essos, your grace,” Quentyn remarked, his face betraying his sense of victory to Dany. “I didn’t need spies to hear of this. He’s been assassinated by a Faceless Man, in Myr, not even a moon ago.”

“Assassinated, how?”

“Poison, your grace.”

“Poisoned by a Faceless Man, you say,” Dany said slowly, yet her voice was sharp like the edge of a knife. “Someone paid for that. Who paid for that, Prince Quentyn?”

“That, I don’t know, your grace,” Quentyn declared confidently.

“You’ve not thought this through, have you, Prince Quentyn,” Daenerys remarked bitterly. “You come here, tell me my nephew is dead, knowing well that I would always choose a Targaryen before I consider a Martell. Seems to me that you came to make me believe that your only opponent is no longer an option, while claiming that you know nothing else of it.”

“As I said,” Quentyn declared, “I didn’t intend to become the bearer of bad news, your grace.”

“And yet here you are,” Dany sighed, rolling her eyes, “In a foolish attempt to convince me that your visit is mere coincidence. Do you think me a fool, Prince Quentyn?”

“I think you a wise woman,” Quentyn said hesitantly, “And a beautiful woman, if I may add. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

“Then you surely must’ve thought about this,” Daenerys remarked, “As you’ve just eliminated yourself. You see, I don’t know anything about you. You tell me my nephew is… dead, poisoned, and you tell me you don’t know who paid for it. From where I sit, it looks like you paid for it, and waited until it was done, so you can show yourself and make your offer.”

Prince Quentyn opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“I tell you what, Prince Quentyn,” Daenerys forced a smile on her lips as she spoke, “I give you the benefit of doubt. I have no proof it was you, and you clearly have no proof of who it was. I won’t have you executed just yet. Go and find me the one who ordered my nephew killed, and while you’re at it, find me proof that he’s dead. Then, and only then will your offer be considerable.”

“Your grace how could I…”

“The same way you found out about Lord Baelor’s marriage, and his brother’s betrothal, and Lord Paxter’s pardon… I don’t care how you do it. But if you show yourself in my presence again without proof, I will not be this lenient. This audience is over.”

*****

 

They were slowly climbing out of the dinghies, helping each other. Looking after each other, Brienne thought to herself. More dinghies were on the way, the ship anchored in the bay, people still climbing off its side on the rope ladders, slowly, carefully.

They were clearly not used to it, most of them. Among those at the end of the pier she noticed a woman, standing out in a crimson cloak. She stood out for her hair, silver, like the Dragon Queens. She was trying hard to control two little ones, occasionally glancing to her direction, fear clearly on her face. And more dinghies came, with more people, the empty ones once more returning to the ship.

“I still cannot believe it,” Jaime whispered, and Brienne gave him a reassuring smile, as the group began a hesitant walk toward them. They had to move – there was no more room on the pier, for the rest to alight.

“They seem to be… afraid,” Brienne said, just as the noise behind her began. She glanced back, at the soldiers. Lannister men. No, lions. Now they were taking fresh buns and skins, as much as they could hold. She smiled. Jaime listened to her and brought nourishment to the folk. Albeit they were assured, the people didn’t come starving, it was a small thing to make them feel welcomed. That’s what she told Jaime.

“Fuck this,” Jaime hissed, seeing how they stopped in the middle of the pier. “Who says we have to stand here. Go lads,” he called out, and the soldiers began to go ahead, handing out them small skins and the buns, and small wrapped packages – cheese, Brienne knew. Cheese and wine and warm fresh bread.

Jaime also took a few steps, but then thought better. No point going on the small pier, they’ll only create a standstill in the middle. No, he had to wait, no matter how painfully slow the time passed.

But they began to move. The children were more willing, running off the pier, studying the welcoming party. Studying Jaime, and her, Brienne. Lady of Casterly Rock, suddenly she realised.

They stood there, waited, and the people stopped in front of them and waited, ate. The dinghies stopped circling back to the ship. There really weren’t so many of them, Brienne realised. They were told of a hundred, more or less, and the Essosi who saved them and sailed them back home.

“I am Jaime Lannister,” Jaime began in a coarse voice.

“We know,” a man called out, “We recognise Ser Jaime!”

Jaime chuckled at that, “You are my folk indeed, none else would interrupt a Lannister. Oh how I missed it!”

At that the people laughed with him, and Brienne allowed herself a smile.

“We are lionfolk,” a woman in the front row said, “The young Hightower told us, Lannister men are called lions. So we are lionfolk.”

“What happened,” Jaime asked then, “How?”

“We saw dragons,” a boy told him his own version of an answer, “two dragons! Gave us a shark!”

“Now that is a mighty thing,” Jaime smiled at the boy, “So you had shark stew on the journey? I always wanted to try shark stew.”

“It was all right, I guess,” the boy said, “I like pig better.”

“Pork,” a woman called out.

“Pork,” the boy said, “not pig.”

“The dead came, my Lord,” an old woman began to give Jaime the answer he was eager to hear, “This few of us, we were at the harbour. We heard the attack; we went to the pier. The ships were sailing out to sea, then the dead came. We took the dinghies. Then we were picked up. We’ve seen Braavos, my Lord. It’s better to be home.”

Jaime nodded, swallowing hard.

“And the man who picked you up,” he called out, and the people began to part. “Maerreo, that is your name I’m told.”

The man stepped forward. Brienne studied him, he looked like he’s not eaten in weeks.

“That is my name, my Lord,” he nodded, glancing back, motioning for a family to step forward, “This is my brother, Maerrapho, and his wife Lyre, and their two little ones.”

“You dropped your cargo to pick up my survivors, I’m told,” Jaime said, “You saved their lives. I hear you paid a hefty price for your generosity.”

“I told that Hightower what I tell you, my Lord,” Maerreo declared, “I stand by what I’ve done. That Hightower already paid me for it, helped me replace my old ship, this one’s better, too. The new Terra. My ship was called Terra. Burned in Braavos.”

“I don’t care if he paid,” Jaime said, his voice chuckling at the end, “I shall, as well. Not that there’s a price high enough for what you’ve done, but you and yours are welcome to make your home with us. Any help you need, come to me, and once spring comes and we return home, there’ll be a place for you. An inn I hear is in order along with that ship. And perhaps more – I know shit about ships, someone has to give me good advice.”

“I am grateful, my Lord,” Maerreo said, “The Hightower lord said, report to Hightower for service.”

“Do that,” Jaime smiled, “Hightower runs the supply routes between Old Town and the camp, and Old Town and Seagard… he’s in need of every ship. Your family… we have no inns here, but I’m sure we can keep you busy. Perhaps help with organising the halls and the like. I know the Lord Hand could use some advice with that.”

“The Lord Hand,” a woman said, “the little Lannister.”

“Nice way of saying the dwarf,” Jaime remarked, “Lord Tyrion is Hand of the Queen and supervisor of this camp. You’ll be given accommodation, huts”

“Huts?”

Brienne chuckled. “Huts, Dothraki huts. They’re warm and spacious, the people here like them.”

“Forgive me,” Jaime looked at her apologetically, “This is Ser Brienne of Tarth, the lady of Casterly Rock.”

“A lady knight!” A girl shouted.

“Yes,” Brienne nodded, relieved smile on her face. They didn’t look at her as if she was some kind of curiosity, instead, she saw appreciation in their eyes.

“If you could all think of what you’re good at,” Jaime said then, “The camp has need of many craftsmen, and craftswomen, seamstresses and builders and hunters… Food is free, twice a day in the halls, for all of us. It’s portioned, but enough.”

“We’ve been starving for months, my Lord,” a man said, “We won’t ask for much. We won’t be trouble.”

“You could never be trouble,” Jaime smiled once more an emotional smile, “You are a blessing, all of you. I believed my people dead; we all did. Yet you are here. It’s nothing short of a miracle, I thank the Gods for it.”

“Is it true what the Hightower boy said,” someone asked, “The lions fought the dead atop the Wall?”

Jaime chuckled, gladly for the change of topic. “It is true,” he said, “We stood atop the wall. We fought with unsullied and the Nights Watch there.”

“How did those monsters break through?”

“Well, if we begin to walk, I tell you the story,” Jaime said then with a smile, “Unless you heard of it yourself. I’ve never heard of the horn of Joramun. Lord Howland Reed told me after the battle, it was a horn that once woke giants in the lands of always winter. It was said, next time the horn is blown, it’ll bring down the Wall itself. Unfortunately for us, it did bring down the wall, right onto Castle Black.”

“And what happened then?”

They all were walking by now. There were horses nearby for Jaime and Brienne, but they walked past, listening to Jaime.

“We were running atop the wall, Jon…” he paused for a moment, “Jon Targaryen saw the horn, he knew of it, so he ordered to evacuate. We came down nearby, and we attacked them bastards on the sides. The unsullied army were at the front, and so as they crossed, we were hunting them, the dragons were burning them. But there was too many. They can raise those they kill; I am sure you know. So we retreated. Then we attacked them on the road, killed their giants and mammoths and whatever dead wild beast they brought with them. Shadowcats, eagles and ravens… After that we fought them in the North, at a lake, we drove them onto the lake and burned more of them. Actually… I wasn’t there, my orders were to catch up with the refugees from Last Hearth, escort them to Winterfell.”

“How many battles were there,” a man asked surprised.

“After that, there was Winterfell,” Jaime said, “Where the dead slayed a dragon and that rose from the dead. The Targaryens took the other two dragons to kill it at White Harbor. You’ll hear that story many times in the camp, there are a lot of Northerners who were evacuating White Harbor during that attack.”

After that, we set traps at Castle Cerwyn, and in the marshes of the Neck… all of it to reduce their numbers, for there was a hundred thousand of them. We could’ve never defeated them in the field, it is true. We needed to reduce their numbers without giving them much of our own. We kept trapping them, encircling them and burning them, then retreating, before they could take more of us.”

“And then?”

“I wasn’t there,” Jaime said, I was south, to fight the Mad Queen’s army.”

“Queen Cersei’s army,” a woman said in shock.

“Yes, her hired army,” Jaime said emotionlessly, “The Golden Company, you may have heard of. We marched south to greet them, and we’ve convinced them to join our fight instead. Jon Targaryen convinced them. But Greywater Watch fell to the dead, burned down.”

“That keep is legendary,” a woman said, “I hear they eat frogs, the crannogmen.”

“Be nice,” Jaime smiled, “There are crannogmen in the camp. They also lost their home. And Lord Reed is a good friend to me.”

“But no one can find that keep,” a woman said, “the stories say it’s impossible, the marshes take anyone who tries.”

“They killed a crannogman, and left him,” Brienne said then, “That was their trick. Leave one of ours, and we’ll take in the body, we’ll want to give it proper farewell. Then it will rise, and kill those around him and those kill more… That is how Greywater Watch fell. We believe that is how the Eyrie fell.”

“The Eyrie…” someone gasped, “That is one mighty castle.”

“A few mighty castles fell to the dead, my friend,” Jaime said.

“But in the end, they were defeated,” a woman said, “There was a story, the Prince Promised killed the Other and all of them fell.”

Jaime smiled at Brienne.

“Interesting how word travels far,” he said, “We wanted to do that at the Gods Eye but, we lost there. We almost had it, they had no army left. But then the dead turned west, and you know what happened. They gained an army and marched against us at Kings Landing. But you’re right, Jon Targaryen defeated the one who raised them, and they all fell dead.”

“Is it true the Targaryens burned the city,” a man asked, just as they reached the gate of Maidenpool.

“No,” Jaime turned, “My sister blew up the city. Blew up the whole Dothraki and Unsullied army with it, that is why she did it. Because she didn’t care about the dead.”

“No, she blew up the sept, too,” a woman said, “She cared about the Iron Throne.”

“There is no Iron Throne anymore,” Brienne said kindly, “The dragons melted it.”

“Ser Jaime,” a man stepped forward, “Forgive me, Lord Jaime. We were angry, so angry. Where are the Lannisters we asked. Where are the lords and the army when we are being overran and killed, and worse? But then the Hightower lord told us, he told us the lions roared on top of the wall and fought many a battle in the war, that is why they weren’t there. My Lord, we are proud. Our soldiers avenged us; we are proud.”

“And so am I,” Jaime said with watery eyes, “So am I to see you all.” He raised his hand, pointing toward a stall. “There, you’ll receive directions to huts and where to get blankets and pillows and firewood, all of that. They will show you around the camp and tell you everything to know about it. Come to the nearest hall for supper, we shall sup there tonight. And… thank you.”

“For what, my Lord?”

“For giving us hope. For surviving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How much easier it was when there was a war and I could name chapters after the place the war was at... :D I couldn't decide, is this a Maidenpool chapter or a Meereen chapter? So in the end I went for a third one :D


End file.
